Love is a Strange Master
by Eienvine
Summary: Love is a strange master, and human nature is still stranger. A collection of DS oneshots.
1. I: One of Those Days

This was originally going to be a series of drabbles, but they all refused to be kept down to one hundred words. Then it was going to be many different one-shots, but most of them weren't interested in being very long. So now it's whatever you would like it to be: a series of either overgrown drabbles or underfed one-shots. Either way, they're all D/S and they're all the result of the hopeless romantic in me wondering how Drakken and Shego would get together.

None of the chapters are related to any others; each stands alone and has no bearing on any other chapters.

.o.o.o.o.o.

"Love is a strange master, and human nature is still stranger." - _Tarzan_, Edgar Rice Burroughs

.o.o.o.o.o.

It was just one of those days where she woke up wanting to be kissed, by someone—by anyone. She was tired, and she was feeling low, and all she wanted was to feel beautiful, to be needed by another person. Perhaps it wasn't fair of her to take her emotions out on the doctor—on a normal day, he was the last person she'd want to kiss, and besides she knew how deeply he read into everything—but still, she found herself standing just a little too close, leaning over his shoulder just a little too much.

And he got the hint, and he looked at her like he'd never seen her before, and that's when she panicked. It had just been her frustration, her loneliness—hadn't it?—and she was fairly certain she hadn't meant anything by it, or maybe she had; it was hard to keep a cool head when he was looking at her like that.

Or maybe there was a reason she'd chosen the doctor for her flirtations, because when he cautiously brushed a strand of hair out of her dazed face, she found herself smiling.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	2. II: Sacrifice

Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Once again, each chapter is a different story, so this one has no relation to last chapter. Just in case y'all didn't read the author note last chapter. ;)

.o.o.o.o.o.

"Come on, try it!"

He is still, staring apprehensively at the white sheet spreading out before him. "No, I don't think so."

"Seriously, it'll be fun!"

She doesn't see how he stiffens when she says that, and he's glad. He's so terrible at so many things, and he's tired of having it shoved in his face and he's tired of failing. But how can he make her understand that, when she's brilliant at everything she touches? How can he explain to her how strongly he dislikes ice skating when she was so excited to do it herself, when she was practically bursting with excitement at this surprise she'd set up for him? How can he tell her that "It'll be fun" preceded every failed attempt at joining social activities and fitting in during his childhood?

She's never been awkward and she's never been a failure, and he's afraid that if he admits that this is just one other thing that he's incompetent at, she'll realize what a mistake she made in asking him on this . . . date, which is what he hopes but is not really sure this outing is. She's never done anything like this for him before, and after he proves what an oaf he is, he's sure she'll never do anything like it again.

And the fear that this could be their last date is what spurs him into action. She's looking at him now and he's afraid he's going to blow his one chance, afraid he's going to lose her, so he takes a deep breath, ready to tell her he's willing to skate. She beats him to the punch. "You don't have to if you don't want to," she says frankly, but he detects a hint of hesitation in her tone, like she's afraid he doesn't like her surprise, like—and this is a new thought—she's as worried about impressing him as he is about her, and this changes everything.

"No, I'd like to. It's time I learned."

Her smile is like the sunlight, and, dazzled by its glow, he allows her to take his arm and lead him to the rental counter. The warmth of her hand on his wrist creeps up his arm and he decides ice skating is a sacrifice he's willing to make.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	3. III: Tension

.o.o.o.o.o.

She couldn't even remember why she was mad at him, although her hands were glowing and he was trying to get away from her so _something_ must have happened. It had been easier to get upset with him lately, ever since the invasion. They left the awards ceremony and never spoke about what happened there, but it was always at the back of her mind—his too, if the sudden strain in their relationship was anything to go off of. Things had changed between them and neither of them would admit it, leaving them both on edge and uneasy around the other. It had only been a matter of time before the tension in the lair caused one of them to snap . . . as she had finally done.

He had backed himself up against the wall now, and even as she advanced she wondered what she doing, wondered why instead of constantly fighting, they couldn't just settle down and be happy being together, wondered why she was terrorizing him instead of telling him the real reason she'd come after him when he'd been abducted. Her gloved hand grabbed the front of his coat and he cringed, and as she leaned toward him he tensed—

and relaxed quite suddenly because she was kissing him, hard, with all the unspoken frustration of the last few weeks, and when he'd recovered enough to slide his hand into her hair and kiss her back, she melted into him, thinking to herself that it seemed an agreeable alternative to blasting him.

Of course she still intended to get after him for whatever he'd done to set her off, once she figured out what it was. But that could wait.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	4. IV: Second Chances

.o.o.o.o.o.

It didn't surprise him when they didn't work out. Knowing him, it was practically inevitable. They tried going to dinner once, after the awards ceremony—"Not a date," she insisted, but they both knew they were testing each other out. He failed. He had no practice at cultivating a relationship or saying the right thing or being a pleasant dinner companion, and by the time he'd spent most of the night doodling in a notepad because he didn't know how to talk to her, absent-mindedly told her that she didn't look very good in that dress, and inadvertently said something very inappropriate to the waitress, even he knew that it was over.

It also didn't surprise him when she had another date only a few days later. She wasn't one to dwell on the past, and he knew her well enough to know that this was her way of telling him that she wasn't pining for him. They hadn't gotten around to moving away from each other yet, though they both knew they eventually would, and things had been strange in the lair between them; he supposed this was why she felt the need to make such a clear break in their relationship. He didn't blame her for it.

It especially didn't surprise him that when she came down the stairs in a stunning black dress, her hair twisted on top of her head, jewelry sparkling everywhere—she'd gone all out for this new man, whoever he was—he was torn between the sudden urge to kill her date with his bare hands and to spend the night curled up in a miserable ball on the couch. He loved her, he'd realized in the last few days, and it killed him that he'd blown his one chance with her. He'd have given anything for a second try, a brief reprieve in which to prove himself, but it didn't even occur to him to tell her this; how could he, ugly mortal that he was, expect this goddess to have the poor judgment to agree to go out with him twice in one lifetime?

What did surprise him was that on her way to the front door, she paused by the kitchen where he was standing at the sink, staring determinedly out the window so he didn't have to look at her. "What's the moony look for?" she asked in her usual sarcastical way. "You know you promised to go straight, so you don't need any more diabolical schemes."

He didn't respond at all, didn't even turn to look at her, and this seemed to make her nervous, because when she spoke again her voice was more unsure. "What are you thinking about?"

He was fairly sure she didn't actually care and only wanted to get a rise out of him, but he had nothing to lose so he answered honestly.

"You. How beautiful you look. How much I'll always regret the way I acted and the fact that my own . . . stupidity is why I'm going to lose you." He paused. "How much I'm going to miss you."

Apparently she wasn't expecting that because she stared at him, wide eyed, for a long moment while he shifted nervously under her gaze. Then she shook her head and fished in her purse for her cell phone.

"I want sausage and mushroom," she told him as flipped her phone open.

"What?" came his eloquent reply.

"Pizza, Dr. D," she said mildly. "Obviously fancy restaurants are not your forte, so we're going to start out with pizza and a movie. We can work on nicer outings later. Now, I'm going to go get out of this dress, and by the time I get back down I want pizza on its way and a movie ready to play."

He was shocked, but he wasn't stupid, and he knew that how he reacted now would change the course of his life. "I just got a movie from that place down the road," he stammered.

She smiled. "Then it's a date."

As he ran to the phone and began dialing furiously, she walked up the stairs, her cell phone to her ear. "Hi, Mike? I've got bad news—it's not going to work out tonight. No, I don't think it's going to work out any night." She turned around to look at the kitchen, where the doctor paused in his conversation with the pizza parlor to smile hopefully up at her. "The truth is," she continued, "there's someone else."

.o.o.o.o.o.


	5. V: Movie Night

Choosing the movie is the only useful thing she's done all day, which annoys her a great deal.

Perhaps, she reflects as she gets the popcorn, she's only good for villainy and her current endeavor is doomed to fail. After the invasion the doctor asked her to stay on as his assistant and she agreed, having realized in a moment of clarity somewhere on her journey between the earth and space that the doctor is her only friend, but the fact is she's useless as an assistant; she's intelligent but she's nowhere near as brilliant as he is, and so far all she's done is lift a few reactors and open a few jars. Being his assistant had seemed like the right decision when he asked her after the awards ceremony, when she was riding high on their victory and on a new-found feeling of camaraderie with the doctor, but since then she's spent most of her time sitting around the lab like a lump. She's a bright, talented, dangerous woman, and after so many years of being in high demand as a mercenary in villain circles, she finds her current idleness disheartening. She wonders if taking the job was the right choice, if he's holding her back, if she wouldn't be better off back at her old profession of villainy and crime.

She's too tired to get herself into a proper pout, though, so she simply goes back to the lounge where the doctor waits. He looks at least as tired as she feels, which is unsurprising; since she stayed up until three watching TV the night before, she knows he stayed up at least that late working on his latest project. She's about to suggest that maybe they forego the movie, since they both look unlikely to stay awake past the credits, but she's distracted when he unexpectedly comes toward her and takes the popcorn and drinks from her so she can sit down. She finds herself smiling at this bit of thoughtfulness, and maybe her defenses are low because she's so tired but she admits to herself that there are certain parts of this life—certain people in this life—that she'd miss.

The couch is deliciously comfortable and she falls into it gratefully, staring sleepily up at the movie as it starts. For the first few moments her mind is happily blank, and then she's aware of the doctor sinking down on the couch next to her, sitting close—very close—intimately close—a year ago she would have recoiled from the the feeling of his arm against her arm, his leg against her leg, but things are different now. There's been some change she can't quite put her finger on, and she's surprised to find she doesn't hate that change, almost as surprised as she is to see the doctor making what is for him a very bold move. Or maybe he's tired enough that he doesn't notice what he's done. Either way, she doesn't move away.

Her head is heavy with exhaustion and she thinks it's a shame that the doctor's shoulder is just sitting there, unused, so she employs it as a pillow. The lights are low and the warmth of his body almost lulls her to sleep, so that she almost doesn't notice when he leans his own head against hers. She's surprised to find she doesn't mind it, which makes her pretty sure that she made the right choice in taking this job, and the fact that she can feel him sigh when she threads her arm around his makes her pretty sure she doesn't have to worry about what she's doing in his life anymore. So she curls closer into the doctor's side and finds herself smiling.

She just hopes she can keep the assistant title. She does rather enjoy that paycheck.


	6. VI: Have a Nice Day at Work

The alarm clock goes off before the sun has even risen, and he buries his face deeper into the pillow and groans. One of the great advantages he'd had as a villain, he reflects, was the ability to set his own hours. Still, he supposes that when one is discussing a lucrative new contract with a small African sovereignty who intends to pay a fortune for the work, one can't be picky about when that sovereignty decides to set meetings. And the thought of that lucrative new contract, coupled with the thought of getting back to work and putting his skills to use, is what finally gets him out bed.

He showers quickly and dresses in his usual lab coat—the idea of changing his regular outfit to a more sedate suit and tie was considered and then quickly discarded after the awards ceremony—then checks his reflection in the mirror. Underwhelming, as usual; not a face that inspires confidence or adoration, but he's used to that by now. He makes a face at his reflection as he realizes he feels nervous. How embarrassing that after everything he's been through and done, he's nervous about meeting with a few bureaucrats about a new defense system. But he supposes that it's because so much rides on this meeting; it's his first major contract offer since he's gone straight, and he needs this to go well in order to make money, stay afloat, make a name for himself. He picks up his overnight case, and with a nod at his reflection he leaves the room.

His determined stride down the hall falters as he passes the door to her room. He'd like to wake her up to tell her goodbye, as he's likely to be gone for a few days; deep down he admits he'd like for her to tell him good luck, that she's rooting for him, that she's sure this meeting is going to go well. But after only a brief hesitation, he moves on, knowing that waking her now would not work out the way he'd like it to. Even if she were the type of person to give encouraging pep talks—and she's most definitely not—he knows she hates waking up early, and he's also fairly sure that his expecting a warm goodbye would cause awkwardness between them. They still haven't said a word to each other about what happened at the awards ceremony, even though it's been a week, and he supposes that no news is good news and he doesn't want to push the subject and make her mad—or worse, frighten her off. Still, she didn't even tell him goodbye last night, and he rather dislikes that.

He walks down the stairs to the kitchen and gets himself a bowl of oatmeal, responding to some dimly remembered advice of his mother's about how a hearty breakfast like oatmeal makes you full and focused. He eats quickly and then, frowning, hurries to the main floor bathroom to brush his teeth again—one has to make a good first impression, after all—and then it's back to the kitchen to grab his overnight bag.

He's opened the door to go to the garage when he hears footsteps on the stairs. He turns and there she is, walking toward him. She's wrapped in a robe with her hair tousled, one hand over her mouth to cover a yawn, clearly straight out of bed. He's never seen her up this early and he's about to ask her why when she reaches him and slings her arms casually around his neck. "I wanted to make sure I caught you before you left," she says in a voice still muffled by sleep, and before he can respond she's kissing him. It's brief but still leaves him speechless and slack-jawed, giving her plenty of opportunity to hand him the overnight bag he dropped. "You'd better hurry; you don't want to be late," she says, straightening his collar. "Have a nice day at work." There's a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, as though she knows exactly how that kiss affected him, and before he can speak she has turned around and headed back upstairs, stifling another yawn. He stands stock-still until she's out of sight, then turns and blindly fumbles for the doorknob. He's still got a meeting to attend; the sooner he gets there the sooner he can leave, and he's never been so excited to get home before.


	7. VII: Christmas

"Well, why didn't you ask me?"

"Because I thought the answer was obvious!"

She throws up her hands in frustration. "Why would that be obvious? Why would you think I wouldn't be here for Christmas?"

"Because you've never been here before!" he retorts immediately. "Look, I didn't mean to spring this on you but for the first time in my life, I can have my mother over for the holidays, and I want to do so. Any other year she would have wondered why I live in a lair."

"And what am I supposed to do while you two have your Lipsky family reunion?" Her voice is getting louder and slightly more hysterical and he feels she isn't being fair but then, when is she ever fair?

"Your brothers?"

"Oh, that's a brilliant idea," she says sarcastically. "That'd be as much fun as hanging out with your mom."

"Hey," he says defensively, his voice rising in volume to match hers, "it's not my fault your family has issues. And why would you have wanted to stay here over Christmas anyways? You always seem annoyed with my company."

He can see she's gearing up for a high-decibel retort, but before she can speak a henchman walks by. "Hey, look," he says, pointing up at the ceiling above them, "mistletoe."

The doctor looks up, wondering what the henchmen were thinking when they put that up, and before he can do anything else her mouth crashes onto his, and even though she seems more angry than affectionate it's still the most incredible thing that's ever happened to him, and he's wondering if he should kiss her back (and if he even knows how to kiss her back) when she pulls away and stares at him defiantly. Her expression is stern but her chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he wonders if her heart is beating as fast as his is.

"That," she says sharply, "is why I wanted to stay here over Christmas."

He doesn't know how to respond—doesn't know much more than the fact that he wants more than anything for her to do that again—so it takes him a moment to form words. "Why . . . why don't you both stay here for Christmas?"

She considers this a moment. "I wouldn't be intruding?"

"No, I'm sure Mom won't mind." Actually she might, but just at the moment he'd say anything to stay on his partner's good side.

"Oh." She looks at her hands.

"So, uh, merry Christmas. I guess we'd better get you a stocking to hang on the mass spectrometer."

"Yeah," she says quietly, all the fight gone out of her, and he wishes she'd say something about what just happened.

Well, apparently that job falls to him, so he clears his throat. "You know, I'm still standing under the mistletoe," he says, and wonders if it sounds as awkward as it felt, but she laughs—a happy laugh, not a mocking one—and this time the kiss is much sweeter. He supposes finding stockings will have to wait.


	8. VIII: Impertinent Questions

She's awoken abruptly in the middle of the night when the doctor slams a hand down on the armrest of the couch next to where her head is laying. She cracks open one eye to see his face, dimly lit by the television she left on when she dozed off. He looks nervous, a bit concerned, but determined, and she wonders what happened tonight to make him like this. She'd thought it was crazy of him to agree to go for drinks with his old college friends, after all these years and all that had passed between them, and from the looks of it she may have been right to be concerned. Then he speaks.

"You love me, right?"

That wasn't what she was expecting. She opens her other eye, fully awake now, and considers the anxious man leaning over her. Whatever was discussed on the outing—and based on the question she supposes their relationship was the main topic—it got to him, got him nervous and cagey.

She can't blame him; things have been pretty uncertain, pretty up-in-the-air, and that can get to a person after a while. They're close right now, closer than they've ever been, close enough that she's comfortable commandeering his arm when they're at a movie or sprawling across his lap when they're sitting on the couch, close enough that she kissed him once, though she panicked a little and hasn't tried it again since. The confusion comes because neither of them has said a word about it yet, whatever _it_ is—he remains silent because he's pretty terrible at this sort of thing and she remains silent because the only thing she hates worse than mushy feelings is being forced to talk about them.

But he's still leaning over her, waiting for an answer, and it's completely bizarre but somehow completely him to ruin her sleep in the middle of the night and ask her impertinent questions, and as she looks at him she decides that maybe this is the perfect opportunity to get this conversation out of the way; she knows it's going to happen eventually, and this way they don't have to have a big sappy scene later.

So she shrugs. "Yeah," she says.

His face relaxes. "Good," he replies seriously, and tromps away off to bed in the blue glow of the television. She bemusedly watches him go, then turns over and snuggles back into the couch. It was rather nice to have that over with.


	9. IX: Literature Review

The books mentioned herein are real books, according to Amazon. No copyright infringement intended.

.o.o.o.o.o.

He's a scientist, which means that in his world, there is nothing to be known that can't be learned from research or a book. And since research isn't an option in this case—it's a field he's not any kind of expert in—that leaves books as his only option.

He visits a local bookstore to stock up on reading material; normally he'd order off the Internet, but then his order would be delivered to the front step of the lair, where any of his employees could see it, and he's determined to keep his purchase secret. So he buys the books one afternoon when he's in town and sneaks them back into the lair, and by that evening he's already read one cover to cover. And it's interesting; it changes the way he's thought about a lot of things. At first he's not sure he wants to make the effort to test these ideas, but he feels that he's got to give them a try. After long thought, he resolves that he will apply these concepts at the first opportunity.

But of course—perhaps inevitably—the books don't stay secret very long. His partner has a knack at getting into things she isn't supposed to, and when he gets out of the shower the next morning, she's standing in the hallway over his bookstore bag, laughing hysterically at the titles contained therein.

"_Flirting 101: How to Charm Your Way to Love, Friendship, and Success_? _How to Make Someone Fall in Love with You in 90 Minutes or Less_? Geez, Doc, you're a regular self-help seminar for the socially awkward, aren't you?"

He can feel his face flushing, which he knows from experience interacts with his blue skin to create a very unattractive color, so he darts to his room, grabbing the bag on the way.

Her voice floats after him. "Who's the lucky girl?" He's inclined to ignore her but he remembers chapter one from the book he read last night: **Be Confident**. And he remembers his resolution to put what he's learned into practice. So he stops, and for longer than he'd like to admit he stands in his doorway, his back to her, trying to muster up the courage to respond.

He thinks it might be a miracle that he's finally able to force out words. "You are," he says in a tight voice, fairly certain that being unable to look the girl in the face when he uses his smooth lines on her is not going to earn him any points in Flirting 101. It's a testament to the strength of his feelings for her that he was willing to put himself out there like that at all. And he braces himself and waits for her to laugh.

But instead there's a moment of stunned silence, and then she says in a voice he's never heard her use on him before, "Really?"

He finds himself turning around. There's a smile darting across her lips, as though she's trying to fight it back, and she's fiddling with the ends of her hair, and he remembers both of these behaviors from chapter six: **Watch the Other Person's Response**. He's fairly sure that the book said that they're positive responses, so he chokes out, "Really." Shoving his hands in his pockets to stop himself from wiping his sweaty hands on his coat, he continues, "So I was wondering if you'd like to get together sometime . . ." He finds he's quoting chapter eight verbatim, but it's too soon—he thought he'd have more time to memorize it—and the words aren't coming.

Luckily she doesn't have that problem. "And get dinner?" she finishes his question. "Maybe tonight?"

His heart is pounding, partly from nerves and partly from delight that she's responding like this. "Would six-thirty work?"

"Six-thirty is perfect," she says, and leaning forward she places a kiss on his cheek. That's chapter four, **Break the Touch Barrier**. "It's a date."

"It's a date," he replies dazedly, and as she walks away he places the bag of books reverently on his bed. Clearly these books are worth their weight in gold.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	10. X: Friends

She knows she was in demand when she was a crook, but it hadn't occurred to her that at least one group would be interested in her now that she's gone straight.

"Just think of it, Team Go, fighting crime together again."

She doesn't try to keep the boredom out of her voice. "No."

Up on the video screen, Hego keeps talking as though she hasn't spoken. "Back with your brothers, cleaning up the streets . . ."

"No."

He frowns a little. "It's what Mom and Dad would have wanted."

He must know he's losing the argument if he's playing the Mom and Dad card. She smirks. "Look, we already tried the Team Go thing and I'm not gonna lie, it didn't really work for me. You guys are on your own."

Hego seems genuinely shocked, like he never expected her to say no. "But you went good. Which means you're not committing crimes anymore. So, I mean—I thought—aren't you, you know, unemployed? Why on earth would you stay?"

She shrugs, examining her nails. "I'm doing stuff around here. I'm . . . helping."

Mego's face appears on screen then. "You're 'helping'? I knew it, you're dating Drakken. Hego, I believe you owe me twenty bucks. I told you a man and a woman couldn't work together that long and not hook up."

And now she's annoyed; her brothers have that affect on her. "I'm not dating Drakken, okay? We're just friends. I know the concept of friendship is a little foreign to you two, but it is possible for two people to just be friends."

Hego looks to have a thing or two to say in response, so she quickly hits the button to end the call. And it's only when she's massaged her temples a moment and turned to leave the room that she realizes that Drakken has been standing in the doorway.

"So you're not leaving?" he asks.

She hates being sappy but she finds that her expression softens. "No, I'm not leaving."

But apparently that's not what was causing that little frown line to appear between his brows, because it stays. There's a long pause, and then he asks, "So we're friends?"

After everything that's happened, she's surprised and a little displeased that he has to ask. "Of course we're friends."

"So, friends. We're friendly . . . friends."

"Yes," she responds slowly, and he nods and turns away, still with that pensive look in his eyes, and he's halfway down the hall before she realizes what might be causing that melancholy slump of his shoulders.

"Hey doc!" she finds herself yelling, and she's jogging down toward him before she even knows what she's going to say when she reaches him. He pauses in his egress and watches her approach. "I didn't mean to say that you're . . . that you're less . . ."

She doesn't know how to finish and he seems to take that as a sign. "You don't have to explain yourself, Shego," he says, and it feels like a door closing, and it's the fear of that door closing that spurs her on.

"Yes I do," she finds herself saying. "It's true that you're my friend—you're my best friend—probably my only friend. But that doesn't mean . . . but you're more than that to me," she says uncertainly. "You . . . matter to me."

His face has been stoic up until this point but now she can see the reluctant smile in his eyes. "Really?"

"Really," she says, and she wants to say more but words fail her. It's been a long time since she had a conversation like this, and she used to be good at it but somehow this one matters so much more than any that happened previously.

But it doesn't matter because he reaches hesitantly out for her hand at the same time that she reaches out for his, and when they touch she smiles. She's safe with her hand enclosed in his. After all, he's her best friend.


	11. XI: Public Brawling

It's not that he thinks she can't handle herself. If the years they've spent together have taught him anything, it's that she can handle herself better than anyone he knows. And it's not that he's usually chivalrous—he supposes he probably should be, that he ought to be ashamed to admit this about himself, but the fact is that while he respects women perfectly well, it mostly never occurs to him to open doors or pull out chairs for them. And it's definitely not that he's a fighter who's accustomed to settling disagreements with his fists.

So he's as surprised as anyone to find himself standing with clenched fists over a shocked gentleman who's currently rubbing his jaw. It helped that the guy was quite drunk, but still, the doctor is surprised that he managed to knock the guy over. It feels like the moment to say something, so he opens his mouth and "Watch your tongue" is the brilliant zinger that pops out. _Suddenly I'm my mother_, he thinks with an inward wince, but then he looks up and all other thought leaves his mind.

She's standing next to the bar, staring in surprise at the figure on the floor, wearing the stunning black dress that inspired the rude comments that precipitated the punch. She lifts her eyes to his. "I could have taken care of him myself," she says, but her face and her voice make it clear that she's still too surprised by his actions to really be annoyed.

"I know," he says. "But he was very rude." To be honest, his hand is starting to throb and everyone is staring at them and Shego looks less than thrilled, and suddenly he rather wishes he'd let her deal with it herself. But the things that man was saying about Shego—well, suddenly the phrase "it made my blood boil" makes sense to him. It made him furious to hear someone talk like that about his former sidekick, current assistant, his friend. (There are several other things he wishes she were to him, but he usually tries not to think about that; they're the reason the word "heartbreak" has started to make sense to him lately as well.) And he'd seen a scene in a movie once where the hero hit a guy in just such a situation, and it definitely ended well for the hero and the girl. A guy can dream, can't he?

But instead of swelling orchestra music and a soft-focus embrace, he gets the host of the party pulling him aside and suggesting that he leave. The man's polite, since the doctor is an honored guest (having created a new tank for the group throwing the party) but it's humiliating and Shego looks embarrassed and by the time they're both out the door, he's definitely wishing he'd just stayed out of it.

"I didn't mean to get you kicked out," he says to Shego, who is so silent that it's making him uncomfortable. "Are you mad?"

In the light from the streetlamp, he can see her brow is furrowed. "It's been a long time since I got kicked out of a party," she says, and he casts an uneasy sidelong look at her. "And I don't need you to fight my battles."

"Oh," he says. "I'm sorry about that."

But her frown is rapidly giving way to a smile, and then she shakes her head and laughs, as if she's only just now really processing what happened. "I can't believe you hit that guy. I didn't know you had it in you. I wouldn't have thought you could take him down."

"You have no faith in me at all, do you, Shego?"

She laughs again and threads her arm through his. "Come on, Doc, let's get you home before you start any other fights."

He wants to protest that he didn't start this fight, but he's distracted by the fact that he can feel her arm against his side, which makes him suddenly self-conscious about the way he breathes.

"Where'd you park the hovercar?" she asks.

But lifting his free arm to point makes him cringe at the pain. She starts a little at the sharp intake of his breath. "Did you hurt your hand?" she asks, and when he doesn't answer she's silent a moment. "I don't need you to fight my battles," she finally repeats, "but that was sweet of you."

And he's glad the darkness covers the color he knows is rising into his face, especially when she squeezes the arm she's still holding. He doesn't get called "sweet" very often. And he's never heard that tone of voice from Shego—at least not aimed at him, and without the aid of mind control. Heart pounding in his chest, he leads her down the dark street, arm in arm under the lamplight. And then it _is_ like a scene from a movie.


	12. XII: Getting to the Point

Things were getting ridiculous.

Of course, things were often slightly ridiculous—that was practically the doctor's middle name—but since the alien invasion, the mood in the lair had gotten so awkward that it was almost unbearable. Ever since the awards ceremony, the doc had gotten simultaneously more friendly and more uncertain around Shego. When they passed each other in the hall, he'd smile broadly and then appear very interested in something on the wall. He'd walk into a room where she was, make himself comfortable, start a nice chatty conversation, and then abruptly leave two sentences in. Twice now when they were apart he'd sent her messages on her communicator, just to shoot the breeze, and when she responded in kind, he never wrote back. It was just ridiculous.

"Are we going to talk about this?" she demanded one day, dropping into a seat near to where he sat pretending to tinker with some gadget.

He put down the gadget and focused on her—which was huge for him—but almost immediately he picked it back up again. "Talk about what?"

"This. The weirdness in here. It's making me crazy. So . . . why don't we just date?"

His hands stilled. "Date?"

"That's what this is about, isn't it? Look, we can tiptoe around the subject for another month, or we can just date. We both want to, let's just get to it."

He was silent a moment. Then: "Date?"

"Honestly, doc, at this point, it's that or I move to Portugal. Because things have just been too weird."

"Oh, I'm not against it," he said hurriedly. "I just—this is a bit unusual. I'm not really sure where to go from here."

"Take me to dinner," she said promptly. "Or a bar or a show or something."

"Ah . . . all right, Shego, would you . . . uh . . ."

"Would I like to go . . ." she prompted.

"Get coffee?"

"Love to," she said. "See, was that so hard?"

He smiled a bit shyly, and she smiled back and stood to leave. "Let's go now," she said decisively. "I'm getting my jacket. You should grab one too. And probably brush your teeth, just in case."

Drakken gulped audibly. But he was making eye contact again, so she felt like this was definitely an improvement. Sometimes the most direct route was the best one.


	13. XIII: Christmas, take 2

I should be wrapping presents, but instead I wrote this. But it works, in a way, because this chapter is like a present to anyone who reads. Oh dear, that sounds terribly arrogant. Never mind. The points is, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, have a festive Festivus. Me, I'll be sipping egg nog by the Christmas tree, trying to sing The Messiah with my family (I tell you, Handel is a serious business), and enjoying not being at work. It's a wonderful time of year.

. . . . . .

It's their first Christmas since the invasion, and Drakken got her a present.

That on its own is not an unusual occurrence—they get each other gifts from time to time—but it's a sign of affection that she's not entirely comfortable with. She's been putting off making a decision about her real feelings for Drakken for months now; you might think that's something you can't ignore for that long, but she knows from extensive experience that if you put your mind to it, if you ignore the important things and just focus on trivialities, you can live in a state of suspended animation for ages. She's been refusing to commit on the Drakken issue for nearly seven months now, never moving forward or back, just working as his assistant, being his friend, trying to decide if she wants to be more.

When they're together alone, when he's being his absent-minded, sweet, endearingly awkward self, then she thinks she wants to be with him; some days she's absolutely sure. But when she's out on the town, when she imagines introducing him to people as her boyfriend, then she panicks and backpedals. He's a sweet guy, sure. But he's a bit odd looking, and he's just so weird.

For his part, he doesn't even seem to notice that they've been on the brink of a relationship for seven months, and she's glad she doesn't have him pushing her for anything. She works very hard to maintain that balance, doing nothing to either discourage or encourage him, in the hopes of keeping her options open. But this gift makes things different. She didn't get him anything, but, as she finds out when she opens it, he got her something great.

"A SmartSlate," she says in surprise as she lets the wrapping paper fall to the floor.

"Yes, I hope black's all right. You seem to be fond of it, as a color." They're sitting on the floor in front of the tree, and when the doc reaches out and absent-mindedly pulls a needle off a branch, a subtle hint of pine reaches her nose.

She turns the device over in her hands. "Doc, these won't even be released until March. How did you get hold of it?"

"You know that research group I'm part of for the DOD? The head of that company is also part of it, and I asked him for one of their beta testing units." He paused. "That's why it's not in a box."

She examines it, runs her fingers over the screen. "I've been wanting one of these for months."

"I know," he says nonchalantly.

She glances away from her new toy to eye him. "How?"

"Well, for starters you get excited whenever the commercial comes on. And whenever we go out and you see someone with a tablet, you watch them use it over their shoulder." He gives her a rueful smile. "We do live and work together, Shego. Do you think I'm completely oblivious?"

As a matter of fact, she had rather thought that, yes. Apparently her opinion of Drakken needs some revising. "And the guy was okay giving this out early?"

He shrugs. "It took some convincing, but yes."

Her gaze returns to the SmartSlate. "And you did that for me?"

And his expression is rueful again, his voice self-deprecating. "I thought it'd make you happy." He hesitates. "I feel like things have been a little strange between us lately—" He speaks haltingly at first but then everything comes out in a rush. "And I don't know if it's my fault and if I did something wrong, and if I did I want to fix it, because I want you to stick around—because you—you matter—" He breaks off, then repeats awkwardly, "I thought it'd make you happy."

And suddenly she's absolutely sure again, but this time, as she looks at sweet, dorky Dr. D illuminated by the lights of the Christmas tree, Dr. D who's not nearly as oblivious as she thinks but who kept from pushing her for so long, this time she doesn't want to overthink it and change her mind. So she carefully places her gift down on the ground, and she gets up on her knees and cups his face in her hands and kisses him.

He's quite still, but when she pulls away there's a goofy smile on his face. It's a picture-perfect Christmas moment, with the tree and the presents around them, but some part of her decides to marr it by blurting, "I don't have a present for you."

His smile falters a little. "So was that kiss just . . . I mean, did you do it just to make up for your lack of gift?"

She finds herself grinning. "No, that was because you make me happy." What a ridiculously sappy thing to say; kissing Drakken seems to be damaging her usual tough exterior. So to stop her mouth from saying anything else embarrassing, she kisses him again. But that just prompts her to say, "And that one was to apologize for taking so long to get here."

And his smile and the lingering touch she still feels against her lips are delightful; they make her feel warm inside and out. So she reaches out for his hand. "I'll get you a present next Christmas."

His smile widens. "You'll be here next Christmas?"

She decides that's a question she doesn't need to answer with words. Yes, she'll be around next Christmas. It may have taken her seven months to get here, but this time she's not going to change her mind—this time she finally understands what she wants, and it's not the SmartSlate on the floor.

Well, it's not _just_ the SmartSlate on the floor.

"Merry Christmas, Dr. D," she says with a smile.

"Merry Christmas, Shego."

. . . . . .


	14. XIV: New Year's Eve

Apparently I've been in a holiday mood for the last week. Maybe I'll have to write a Presidents' Day story next. Happy New Year's, everyone!

. . . . . .

The second he stepped into the room, he knew that coming here was a mistake. The pulsing music, the dancing, the beautiful people buying each other drinks and flirting—this was not his scene. In fact, he and this scene existed in completely different universes, which is exactly what he'd told Shego when she'd asked him to come; he'd told her that he'd much prefer to spend New Year's Eve at the lair, watching a movie or maybe using the new karaoke machine and snacking on chips and salsa.

But this party was absolutely Shego's scene, and when she invited him he knew she hadn't really been out a lot in the last few months, and he felt bad about holding her back, which is why he'd said what he had.

"Well, you and I don't have to spend the holiday together," he'd pointed out.

She'd looked surprised, but she'd agreed and left in that little black dress, and he'd kicked himself for the next three hours. He should have just gone. He didn't like parties but he also didn't like the idea of spending the holiday without her—yes, she was just an employee, but on the other hand he'd loved her from afar for months, maybe years—and he especially didn't like the idea of her spending the evening dancing with handsome men who would buy her drinks and kiss her at midnight. And finally, as twelve drew near, he couldn't stand it anymore and he'd gone to the party.

Which was how he came to be standing in the middle of the crowd, looking around for a familiar face, wondering why he didn't realize she'd be impossible to find in this mob. Luckily, two men behind him were talking loudly, and what he heard caught his attention.

"Who was that girl you were dancing with? I mean, the green skin was weird, but she was hot."

"I know, right? But she left."

"Where'd she go?" Drakken demanded, whirling around to face them.

The guy shrugged. "She went out that side door, just a minute ago."

Drakken followed the man's pointing finger out a side door and into the biting chill of the night. Snow was falling, downy flakes swirling down in the light of the streetlamps, and the ground was coated in several inches of white. Though the snow was quickly obscuring them, he could make out a recent set of footprints in the snow, small feet in high heels, and he followed them down the sidewalk and around the corner.

And there she was, just climbing into the sleek black car she'd recently bought, and she looked shocked to see him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," he said, and then the words got messy and confused. "I-I wanted to spend New Year's with you. I mean, if you wanted to be with me. I mean spend the night with me. I mean spend New Year's, just the evening. You know."

"You hate parties," she pointed out.

He swallowed hard. "You don't."

And her lips curled into a smile he recognized, the one she flashed when she knew something he didn't, but this time it was softer, somehow. She shut the car door. "Well, as luck would have it, I was coming home."

"Home?" That word had never sounded so glorious.

"It was a good party, but I realized it wasn't where I wanted to be."

And her words hit him like a brick, and he was so dazed that he almost didn't hear the crowd in a nearby bar counting down the seconds until midnight, and with every second she took a step toward him.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six-" and now she was holding his hand, their misty breath mingling together in the cold air- "five, four, three-"

"Happy New Year's, Dr. D," she said, and kissed him.

And as it turned out, it was indeed the best new year that he'd ever had.

. . . . . .


	15. XV: A Warm Rain

You guys, apparently I'm in a really sappy mood tonight, and apparently I really want it to be summer. Part of me feels I should apologize for the fluff, but most of me regrets nothing. Except the fact that it's not summer.

. . . . . .

It happens one warm July night when the sky is cloudy and the air smells like rain. He's in his lab working on a piece of software he's promised to have to the government by the end of the week, and she knows he hasn't eaten since lunch. She's hungry herself, and she needs to run into town on an errand anyway, so she pokes her head in the door.

"I'm thinking of picking up some Chinese. You want anything?"

"Mongolian beef," he says promptly, and she walks away smiling, thinking of how not so long ago, he would have greeted any offer of kindness from her with suspicion, just as she would have done with him. This good guy idea seemed dubious to her at first but now she has to admit that it's had a positive effect on both of them: he's calmer, now that he's not desperate to prove himself, and she's kinder, mostly to him but sometimes to others. Or maybe she'd been warming up to people for a while now, and inadvertently becoming a hero had just been her chance to prove it to the world. Either way, she's fairly certain that even if the invasion hadn't happened, she and the doctor still would have changed, somehow. They'd been changing already.

She calls in the order as she drives into town, and Mr. Wu's is quick so she's stepping back into the lair within half an hour, just as the clock strikes 9. It's moments from raining, she's sure, and on a night like tonight she loves the rain—not when she's stuck out in it, but when she can sit snug and dry and watch it. And the notion of curling up on the deck with a box of cashew chicken to watch the rain is such an enticing idea that in a rare move, she pulls the doc away from his lab, where he's been sitting in the same spot since she left, to eat with her.

"You can't sit in there forever," she points out, and he looks like he would like to argue with her so she takes his hand to tug him along, ignoring the fact that he tenses when he feels her hand in his.

Their current lair has a vast concrete deck on the back overlooking the forest, with several deckchairs she uses for sunbathing, and they quickly pull them under the cover of the ledge above to get them out of the coming rain. And just in time, for she's just pulled her chopsticks out of their wrapper when the first raindrops start to fall, dark spots barely visible against the concrete in the quickly fading light. And the smell of it and the sound of it and the warmth of the air around them make her happy—genuinely happy, which is odd for her—and they talk easily. She's found, in the last few weeks, that she rather likes talking to the doc—he's ridiculous, of course, but he's surprisingly funny at times—and she thinks back on the years she spent as his henchwoman, ignoring or belittling him, and she feels like it was such a waste.

It especially seems like a waste just now, when they're having a pleasant meal in each other's company, when the conversation is good and their little spot of dry ground, bordered by walls of concrete and walls of rain, seems so cozy, when they've pulled their chairs so close together—to better share the food, of course—that she occasionally brushes her knee with his. This feels . . . good. This feels better than always being at odds, than him always bossing her around and her always sassing him back. This—and this is a new thought, one that surprises her—is something she could get used to.

And that's territory they've never even considered covering, but she's never been one to hold back when she finds something she wants, so when their meal is finished she makes no move to go inside; she just lays back, propping her feet up and stretching herself the full length of the long chair, and continues the conversation, and after a moment he mimics her movement. With their chairs side by side like this, this is closer than they've almost ever been, and she likes it, and she finds, to her surprise, that she doesn't want him to go inside and keep working on his project. So she continues to talk, about anything that pops into her head, and he makes no move to leave.

They've been out there for a good hour when the night and the rain finally cool the temperatures down to the almost-uncomfortable point. She hesitates, considers, then slides off her deck chair and onto his. Lucky for her the chairs are so wide.

His voice catches in the middle of a story about drinking in college. "What—what are you doing?"

"I'm getting cold," she says simply. "Is this all right?"

"This" refers to the fact that she has snuggled next to him and laid her head on his shoulder, and she hopes he doesn't object because he's keeping her left side warm. He's speechless a moment and then, after a steadying breath, he continues his story.

She hides a grin—apparently she does still enjoy teasing him, just a bit—and then she settles in and listens to the sound of his voice floating through the darkness. The chair is partially inclined, propped up enough to still see the rain but reclined enough that she's very relaxed, and she finds herself getting a bit sleepy.

And to her surprise, this is perfection. His voice in the air, his warmth next to her, the rain pattering down around them: she's perfectly content here, and she dreads the moment they have to go back inside. Unconsciously she rejects that notion for a moment; this is her boss, her ridiculous blue-skinned boss, and she's tough as nails and she doesn't do the sappy and the cuddling. But that was the old her, the old them, and as that moment of rebellion passes, she thinks that maybe this, like their defection to the side of good, was inevitable.

And eventually she becomes aware that he's stopped talking and is carefully inching his hand toward hers, so she saves him the trouble of inching and they sit in companionable silence, becoming accustomed to the feeling of each other and, in her case at least, thinking of nothing but the peace of that moment.

Finally it becomes too cold to stay outside, and reluctantly he moves first, squeezing her hand and stirring her from almost-sleep, and regretfully they go inside.

"I do have to finish this software," he says as they stand uncertainly in the hall, and she can see from his manner that he really would have stayed out there forever, given the chance.

And how could that not make her smile? "Well," she says, "how about lunch tomorrow?"

He gives her a lopsided, hopeful grin in return. "I'm looking forward to it."

And they stand looking at each other a few moments longer, like lovestruck teenagers, until she finally pulls herself away and goes to her room, where she sits on the edge of her bed a moment, deep in thought, until she involuntarily breaks out in a smile and looks at her hand, which she fancies still feels warm.

And outside, the rain continues to fall.

. . . . . .


	16. XVI: After the Crash

Fifteen minutes after the crash, he walks slowly to the rock she's waiting on, hesitant to give her bad news but even more unwilling to keep her waiting.

"It was a coupler for the power source," he says. "I took it out to use in a test fixture I was building and . . . forgot to put it back in. The hovercraft ran on the backup power as long as possible but it wasn't enough to get us home."

Even in the dimness he can see the annoyed look that crosses her face, but there's nothing for him to do but continue. "We're on top of a plateau so local police can't get to us. Global Justice is willing to send out a helicopter large enough for us and the vehicle, but it's going to take a while for them to arrive."

For the first time since they hit the ground, she speaks. "How long?" she asks, her voice tight.

He hesitates. "Two hours," he finally admits. "Roughly."

Once upon a time she would have screamed at him or struck him, and he can see her considering it now, but the fact is that since their turn to good, a lot of the tension has gone out of their relationship, so after a moment of glaring daggers at him, she simply gets up off her rock and stomps away across the sand. He breathes a sigh of both relief and resignation.

. . . . . .

Thirty minutes after the crash she comes wandering back, and he can see that the fight has gone out of her. She flops down on the rock next to him, and he opens his mouth to ask how her walk went but instead finds himself asking, "Are you still mad at me?" to his embarrassment and horror.

She doesn't turn to him. "I'm not thrilled with you," she says, but her voice makes it clear that she's resigned more than angry.

"I'm sorry," he says. "This was all my fault. I should have remembered I took the part, or I should have just gotten a new one."

"You think?" she shoots back, but there's no heat in her words. He decides it's best if he shuts up and avoids disturbing her surprisingly sanguine mood.

. . . . . .

Forty-five minutes after the crash, she speaks, breaking him out of the thoughtful haze he'd sunk into in the long silence. "You don't think there's animals out here, do you?"

It's almost funny, that the most dangerous woman he knows is worried about wildlife, but he can't hold that concern against her. They've lived in some exotic and dangerous parts of the world before, but the jungles and snowfields quickly became familiar and unfrightening. But this plateau they're on feels different from any place they've been. As far as he can see in any direction is sand and protrusions of sandstone, dotted all over with a strange shrubby little tree, and some distance to his right the ground becomes blackness and he supposes this is the edge of the plateau. In the normal way of things he's sure these rocks would be the reddish-orange of the American southwest, but the moonlight is blanching the land, lighting up the world in surprising detail but also robbing it of its color, so that all he can see around him is whites and grays and the palest of yellows with blackness out beyond. It makes the landscape strange and alien, unlike anything he's ever seen, and he can't blame her for feeling that anything could be there in the darkness at the edge of their view.

But at the same time the place is peaceful: perfectly silent and still, with not a single light in sight. It makes him feel they're insulated from the world, safe and protected. So he shrugs. "No, I don't think anything's out there."

. . . . . .

An hour after the crash she speaks again. Somehow he feels that the atmosphere between them has softened in the last few mintues of silence; he couldn't put his finger on how he knows it, but he's sure she's not mad at him anymore. So he's not surprised when her words are thoughtful. "It's insane how many more stars you can see out here."

He agrees. Their little Colorado town is not huge, but there's enough light pollution to block out many of the stars. And when they lived in more exotic locales, they were always too busy with their schemes to go stargazing. But now, with no towns in their way and nothing but time on their hands, he's strangely drawn to the stars overhead, and it makes him smile to know she's noticed them too. They're no longer focused on world domination but they do seem to spend a lot of time working on their own separate projects, and he enjoys having this moment with no distractions, just the two of them talking and noticing the stars together.

And she doesn't do sappy, but he dares to voice a sentimental idea. "They're beautiful."

And she doesn't laugh. In fact she nods. "Yeah." For her that's a lot.

. . . . . .

An hour and fifteen minutes after the crash, he sees a shooting star. "Wow," he can't help saying aloud, and she turns her head to see what it is. He gestures at the sky. "Shooting star," he explains.

And to his surprise, that idea fascinates her. "You saw one? Where? What did it look like?"

He points out the area (although that won't help her see one of her own) and explains what he saw, and she leans her head back to fix her gaze on the sky. He hides a smile as watches her. She has layers, he's learned over the years, a complexity of character he wouldn't have expected. And now here's the hardened-criminal-turned-security-consultant, searching the sky for a shooting star.

And in that moment he knows what he should have wished for when he saw the star. It's a wish he's had for some time, actually, but has always tried to ignore because it seems hopeless and she would not be pleased if she knew. But as he looks at her shining faintly in the moonlight, her face relaxed and happy, her hand so close that he could touch it if he wanted to, it's much harder to ignore that feeling.

"I see one!" she cries. He doesn't see it himself, but he can't help making a wish on her star.

. . . . . .

An hour and a half after the crash, he's lifting a finger to point to a star above them. "It's called a binary star. It looks like a single star from here, but if we had a telescope we'd see it's two stars revolving around each other."

She peers at the star again, and then laughs. "How do you know this?"

He shrugs modestly. "Astronomy class in college. We mostly studied the science behind all this, but we took a few stargazing trips."

And this, like the shooting stars, fascinates her. "Show me something else. Show me how to find the North Star."

So he points out the Big Dipper, then traces the line between the two end stars in the cup to find Polaris. But she doesn't quite follow, so he's forced to scoot closer, right up next to her so they're touching and he can feel her warmth, and point again so she can follow his arm.

"That's not bright at all," she says, sounding disappointed, although he's so distracted by her leg touching his that he barely notices.

"No, not very. But it is part of its own constellation." And he points out Ursa Minor, the Little Bear, and she gazes up at it and makes no move to scoot away from him, and he finds himself smiling.

. . . . . .

An hour and forty-five minutes after the crash, he's sprawled out on the rock and she's lying perpendicular to him with her head on his stomach. Luckily the rock is smooth and, like the night, comfortably warm.

"And that's Sagittarius the Archer," he says, pointing. "That way is the center of the galaxy." But he's not thinking about Sagittarius right then. He's thinking that he may have to build himself a telescope when he gets home and take this up as a hobby again. And he's thinking that clearly taking that astronomy class is the best idea he ever had, because she's never been this close to him before—never been this relaxed and, well, cuddly in his company—and he loves the feeling.

She laughs. "When I was a kid, I thought they'd named the galaxy after the candy bar." And he smiles but he doesn't dare laugh because that'll jostle her and he doesn't want to give her a reason to move. After a minute she goes on. "Why do they call it the Milky Way?"

"I don't know," he says, and he's so caught up in the enjoying the moment that it doesn't even occur to him that he's done something he usually hates: admitting he doesn't know something. "I guess because it's a big white strip of stars."

"You can see it?" she asks, intrigued.

"Sometimes, depending on where you are," he says, his eyes scanning the sky. And then, triumph: "There, see? Pretty faintly, there's a strip that's lighter than everything else."

"That's the galaxy?" She sounds delighted and turns her head to look up at his face. Yes, astronomy class was the best idea he's ever had.

. . . . . .

Two hours and twelve minutes after the crash, he sees a light on the horizon that isn't a star. She hasn't moved or spoken in a while, and he thinks she might be asleep—which would be impressive, given that where she's laying can't be comfortable. He hasn't dared ask, because if she is asleep he doesn't want to disturb her; this may be the only time she ever falls asleep with him, and he doesn't want to end it early by drawing attention to it.

But yes, now he sees that the light is definitely the helicopter approaching. Reluctantly he says her name and sits up; he misses the contact immediately but she'll be embarrassed if Global Justice, who she often works with, sees her dozing off curled up on her boss. She stretches—clearly she was asleep—but doesn't ask why he's woken her; she probably sees the helicopter as well. The closer the machine gets the louder it becomes, and he resents the noise for disturbing their desert solitude.

The helicopter quickly lands and several uniformed men jump out and begin affixing a towing harness to their hovercraft; fortunately it's a small, light craft. Their job is quickly done and the men return to their helicopter, waiting for their two passengers.

The two are soon buckled in next to each other, and as the machine begins to rise from the ground, he glances out the window for one last look at a spot he already misses—one he might mourn forever as the location of a what-might-have-been if only he'd dared to speak up.

Or maybe not, because in an unexpected movement, she leans against his shoulder, threads her arm through his, and takes his hand. "We'll have to go stargazing again," she says in a sleepy voice, "when we're home."

She's never said "home" in that tone of voice before, and it puts an entirely new meaning to the word. He looks down at her in surprise, and she smirks and kisses his cheek before snuggling back down into his shoulder.

He decides that sometimes, crashing your hovercraft can be a very good thing indeed.

. . . . . .


	17. XVII: Date

The Wall Street-type sipping a Scotch and soda at the bar has been checking her out since she walked in, and when he smiles at her she rolls her eyes. He's good-looking, sure, but she can tell he knows it, and she's had enough of smug hunks, no matter how expensive their suits are. Besides, can't he see she's with someone?

But no, apparently he can't, because he's walking over to ask if the seat next to her is taken. Technically it isn't but of course he's not just asking about the seat, he's asking about her attention and companionship, and those are already taken for the evening. But she decides to let him see that for himself, and she looks over at the doctor, seated on her other side, to let him know he can tell this jerk off.

But to her surprise the doctor is studiously ignoring them both, blue hands fiddling with a napkin and gaze firmly fixed on his drink.

She frowns. "Do you have anything to say about that?"

"No," says the doctor quickly, clearly striving for a nonchalant tone, and her frown deepens.

So she's forced to deal with Mr. Scotch and Soda herself, and he's not happy to be written off and she's not happy to have had to do it, and once the man has stalked back to his side of the bar she turns to the doctor, her eyes flaming.

"What was that?" she demands.

He's watching her would-be suitor with curious eyes. "I'm not really sure," he says unhelpfully. "I . . . take it you didn't want to talk to him?"

She doesn't even know how to start responding to that question. She stumbles through several ideas before settling on, "So it doesn't bother you that that guy was flirting with me?"

He meets her eyes for a moment, and in them she sees bashfulness and uncertainty before he looks away again. "I . . . I mean, I don't know. It's up to you, isn't it?"

She pauses, surprised. "Well, yes. It is up to me. But I thought . . . it doesn't bother you?"

And now his eyes are on his glass again. "Why would it?" he mumbles.

And suddenly she's angry; suddenly she wishes she'd never convinced him to come here. "Because we're here together!" she says more loudly than she'd intended. "Because this is pretty much a date, and people usually get mad when other people hit on their dates. Because I thought we were . . . something." She trails off as she notices the bar tender and several patrons watching her, and she does not want to have this talk with an audience so she collects her purse and starts making her way to the exit, cursing all the way. She can't believe she got all dressed up for this, for _him_, and he doesn't even realize why. She can't believe that she's hurt—she who has always been the one to break hearts, not the other way around. And most of all she can't believe that she's spent the weeks since the invasion thinking that she and the doc were growing close, developing a connection that wasn't any less real just because it was never spoken, while he clearly doesn't think of her as being any more to him than she was back when she was only his employee.

She pushes her way through the doors and stalks out into the darkness, and when she hears the doors open again almost immediately, she's slightly gratified to think that he at least felt bad enough to come after her. "Shego, wait!" he calls, and when she doesn't turn he reaches out and grabs her wrist, then almost immediately drops it again like it burns him. "You thought this was a date?"

"It doesn't matter," she tells him. "And either way, it's definitely over now."

"I had no idea," he insists. "I just thought you really wanted to get drunk and didn't want to do it alone. And that man—I was trying to stay out of your way, in case you wanted to . . . talk to him."

"I asked if you wanted to go for drinks. I got dressed up. What's not date-ish about that?"

"You never said anything," he says. "And we've never done anything like this before. We go do karaoke all the time and that's never been a date."

"Because there were always henchmen there," she retorts. "And that was . . . before."

"Before?"

"Before . . . " And they're doing it, they're having that conversation she wanted to avoid back in the bar. "Before we were . . . well, before the last month where we were . . . where I _thought_ there was an us."

There's a pause. "Us?" he repeats in a small voice.

"But it doesn't matter," she barrels on. "It's stupid. Because clearly you don't feel the same way, and I've just misinterpreted the whole situation, and now if you'll excuse me, I would love to go get out of these heels."

And she turns to walk away, and he grabs her wrist again with a quick "No!" And she turns back to face him and there's panic in his eyes, and he hesitates, his eyes searching her face and his whole body tense, and then he closes his eyes and leans forward and kisses her.

Or at least he tries, but the closed eyes and the lack of practice don't really help him and he ends up landing a bit off-center. But when the brief contact is over, his expression is one of such uncertainty and defiance that she can't laugh about it, and anyway she's so confused and worked up that she doesn't want to.

"If I had known," he says fervently, "that you thought this was a date, I would have knocked that guy across the room before I let him hit on you. You are . . . you're . . ." But he can't do gushy, never could, so he finishes lamely, "I would be very happy if this had been a date."

And he couldn't be any more awkward if he tried, but lately she's started to find awkwardness endearing, and her expression softens as she watches him watch her. And she pauses a long time, weighing her options, and then makes up her mind. "Well," she says thoughtfully, "the date doesn't have to be over yet."

A hesitant smile touches his face. "Did you have anything in mind?"

She smiles back. "You could try kissing me again."

So he does.

It's off-center again. But they've got time to work on that.


	18. XVIII: Offer

Based on a true story, although not mine.

. . . . . .

She walks into the lab, where's he's making notes on a set of blueprints, and sits carefully in his computer chair. He's so caught up in his work that he doesn't respond, but after a few moments it sinks in that she's not talking, and that's unusual for her.

"So," he says, glancing up.

"So," she replies, and pauses, and when the silence has stretched on too long she asks, "What are you up to?"

She's trying far too hard to sound casual, and anyway it's not like her to make small talk. Fearing that something is really wrong, he puts down his pen and looks at her properly. "Something on your mind?"

"I just got back from a business lunch," she says, after a moment of hesitation. "Prince of Monaco. He saw me on TV, and he's impressed by my work. He's looking for a personal bodyguard who's a little less conspicuous than the usual muscle—you know, someone who could blend in at a party."

"Oh," he replies stupidly, and then he doesn't know where to look or what to do with his hands, so he picks up his pen and resumes writing.

"It'd be a great gig," she continues in a more confident voice, talking to the top of his head because his eyes are glued to his blueprints. "Great pay, private jet, living in a palace, and, I mean, it's Monaco—loads of casinos. Pretty much a party all the time."

His pen doesn't slow down but his writing is no longer coherent, just a string of letters; in the jumble, he sees he's written the word _can't_. The silence is getting uncomfortable and he knows he should say something, tell her to have her letter of resignation to him by morning, but he finds he's apparently forgotten how to speak.

Then her hand is on his, stilling the scratching of his pen. "Doc," she says, "this is the part where you tell me you don't want me to go."

And now he can't help but meet her eyes. "I don't want you to go," he confesses.

She smiles. "I don't want to go either."

. . . . . .


	19. XIX: Some Things Take Time

. . . . . .

The silence in the room is deafening. She doesn't know what to say—she, who always has a quick remark. And he looks at her uncomfortable expression, watches her struggle to respond, and his hopeful expression slowly settles down into a somber one. "I'd ask you to say something," he says, "but I think I already have my answer."

"I don't—" she says. Then, "I never meant for—" And then, something she doesn't hear herself say often, "I'm sorry."

And the smile he plasters on his face is so obviously fake, so desperate an attempt to cover up his feelings, that it's worse than the pain that was there a moment ago. "Don't be," he says, and there's a wavering in his voice. "You've got your own mind. You aren't required to love me back."

He walks quickly as he leaves the room, and she sits on the sofa and refuses to watch him go, her hands clenched at her sides. Why did he have to go and do that? Why couldn't he have left things as they were? Now things will never be the same between them. This confession will hang over everything they do from this point on. And if things get too uncomfortable between them, she might lose her only friend. She growls in anger and only notices when the smell reaches her nose that she has just burnt a spot on the sofa.

. . . . . .

Twelve hours later he's standing in the kitchen with a suitcase.

"Where are you going?" she asks slowly, and if he's really moving out because she doesn't love him she is just going to _fry _him because that is so manipulative and she is not in the mood to be guilt-tripped into anything this morning.

His knuckles are white from the tight grip he has on his suitcase, and he doesn't seem happy to have to meet her eyes. "I've been offered a temporary assignment with the British government. Actually I was offered it a few days ago but I've been waiting to respond until . . . until now."

That wasn't exactly what she was expecting. "How long?" she asks.

"Five months," he said, and the words prompt a strange feeling in her stomach. "My liaison already has an apartment prepared for me in London; no sense flying back and forth all the time. I . . . Are you . . ." He pauses, stutters, grips his bag tighter. "You're welcome to continue using the lair if you'd like to, but if not I should shut it down and lock it up until I'm back."

And this is real. This isn't a ruse to guilt her into a relationship, or to get revenge for not returning his feelings. This is an opportunity he's been considering for some time and has now decided to take. He is actually moving to the UK without her—they haven't lived apart for many years now—and expects she might want to not be there when he gets back. It's so wrong, such a horrible idea, that she wants to scream. But she can't. He has every right to leave.

"I'll stay," she manages, examining that familiar face for any sign of what he's thinking. But he only looks serious.

He nods and bids her a polite good bye, and before she's even finished processing what's happened he's out the door and she's left alone in the kitchen, observing with detached curiosity the dull pain in her chest. She hasn't hurt like this in many years, and she isn't sure what to do. All she knows is that things are better when he's around. Everything's better. She's better. And before she can over-think things and talk herself out of it, she's chasing him down in the hovercraft hangar.

"Don't leave."

He's climbing into his favorite hovercraft, but he freezes when he hears her voice, and now that he's caught off-guard she can see the pain in his eyes when he looks at her. She rushes forward, her words coming before she can plan them.

"Look, I'm not in love with you," she says. "I'm not sure I've ever been in love with anyone. But I know that I like you better than I like anyone. I know I like the sound of your voice and your cooking and your ridiculous plants and the way I feel when I stand next to you. And it's not love but it could be, maybe in the future, and I'd like to try. But I can't do that if you're gone."

He stares down at her, then slowly climbs back out of the hovercraft. He's looking her right in the eyes and she's noticing for the first time what an intense gaze he has. "So now what?" he asks, not gently.

"Turn the job down," she says promptly, although she does know how hard that would be. "Or come home on the weekends."

He is still and stern, looking at her, and she moves forward to place a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry I can't give you what you want right now. But I do care about you, and maybe someday . . ."

And hope is dawning in his eyes and just as quickly she can see him fight it back down. But finally he relents. "We could reopen the Belgian lair," he suggests reluctantly.

It surprises her how much relief finds its way into her smile. "That'd be good," she agrees, and then it feels like the moment needs something more, so she wraps her arms around his waist in a hug. He is still and awkward for a moment, and then his arms wrap around her and one hand threads through her loose tresses.

He's warm and comfortable, and she loves the feeling of his hand in her hair. This might just work, the idea of her and him together. She hugs him tighter and smiles.

. . . . . .


	20. XX: Home

AN: This story is, in a way, a companion piece to chapter 18, sort of the other side of the coin; you'll see why when you read it. Or you won't, I guess, and you'll think I'm crazy. The point is, it reminded me that I've been meaning to reiterate my original author's note, for those of you who haven't read the first chapter. In this fic, each chapter is completely unrelated; each is a completely new story and timeline. When you ready this chapter, it's as though chapters 1 through 19 never happened. And when I post chapter 21, it will be as though this story never happened either. So if it seems like the stories contradict each other . . . they do. But that's okay.

. . . . . .

He's sitting in a cafe on a riverside boardwalk when he hears a song that she used to play for him. He's never cared much about music but she always did, and she used to force him to listen to her terrible pop in an attempt to get him to share her musical tastes. Most of it blends together in his head now, but this song he remembers. It was her favorite.

His lunch partner, a fellow scientist from the think tank he's currently working with, notices his preoccupation. "You like this song?" he asks with his usual kind smile. "My grandchildren love this music. Carl's only six and he already knows all the words to this whole song."

The doctor nods, reflecting to himself how pleased she would be to know that one of her parting gifts to him was an ability to discuss popular music with his peers. "I had a . . . friend, once, who loved this song. It's not really my style, but she was really into it. She used to . . ." And his voice trails off as memories surface, memories he's kept buried for months now: her dancing in the kitchen when she didn't know he was there, the argument they had where she ended up declaring she would only do karaoke if he agreed to sing a hip hop song, the time he tried to change the radio station in the hovercraft and she grabbed his hand to stop him and didn't release it until they reached home and he was surprised at how much he missed the contact when it finally ended. It's been nearly three months since he's seen her and even though their going separate ways was a mutual decision, he'd been surprised at how much it hurt when she moved out. So he'd decided was easiest to forbid himself to think of her, rather than wallow in regret. Now he sees that he was right. Now he sees that opening those floodgates will only make him sorry again.

But what else could they have done? There was no use for her around the lab; he no longer needs muscle, now that he's a proper government-funded researcher, and she was bored sitting around the lair all day. So when she got the job offer to head up a private security firm, how could he have said no? It was an exciting opportunity for her, and he'd told her as much. That response had seemed to surprise her, but after a long silence she agreed and that was that. She'd moved out the next day, and from the infrequent and impersonal e-mails she sends him, she seems to be doing well. And he's doing well without her, mostly; he works hard and earns accolades and ignores how quiet the lair is when he goes to sleep at night.

But now that the floodgates are open they're proving hard to shut again, and he wishes the song would end because he can't hear anything over her voice in his head and he wants the memories to go away because he's being forced to admit for the first time since she left that he misses her, that his life is quiet and empty without her, that if he knew how to convince her to come back he'd be on a plane this very moment.

His lunch partner has been sitting politely, waiting for him to finish his sentence, but when no words come the man finally prods gently, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," the doctor says, and he can tell he sounds distracted and unconvincing, so he feels the need to explain himself. "Have you ever—have you ever known someone, and maybe you're just friends, you're good friends, and you do everything together and she's great but that's all—" he's rambling now and he can't stop— "but then that person leaves and you realize that maybe there was more to it than that, and maybe she was the only person you care about but it's too late and she's gone?"

It was a crazy answer but he can see in the old man's face that he understands—perhaps understands more than the doctor would like him to. "Maybe," the man says gently, "you should tell her that."

The doctor laughs shortly. "What would I tell her? That I want her to move back to town so we can have movie nights again? It was a good friendship while it lasted, better than I realized at the time, but she has a great job now and I have no right to ask her to give that up for me."

"Was she really just a friend?" The old man looks at him pointedly. "I rather think not. I rather think you do have the right to ask her to come back, because you love her."

The doctor scoffs. "No, it was never like that. She's just—"

"The only person you care about?" the old man fills in.

Caught off guard, the doctor just stares at him.

The old man smiles back. "I think you should tell her. I think she deserves to know. What if she feels the same way? What if you have the chance for something great?"

And the doctor still can't find words, because this is madness and it's ridiculous and yet to his shock it's all so very _true_.

"All right," says his lunch partner, "where does she live?"

"Live?"

"You can skip this afternoon's meetings—I'll tell them you had an emergency—and that gives you all weekend to fly to wherever she lives and tell her you love her."

"This is crazy," the doctor tells him flatly.

"Son, I've been a family man for many years, and I'm here to tell you that the companionship of a good woman, if you can get it, is one of the greatest things a man can have. It's worth fighting for. Do you think your girl is worth fighting for?"

And he's never thought of her that way—or maybe he's never let himself think of her that way—but now that the suggestion has been made he can't unthink it. And now that he's thinking it he's hit with a sudden ache of longing to have her in his arms that almost knocks him over with its fervor, and to his surprise it's a familiar ache, and he wonders if maybe "love" is the label he always should have but always refused to place on his feelings for her. He's trembling with fear at it all, at the enormity of such a decision, but then he imagines what it would be like if she said yes and the hope for such a possibility suddenly feels worth the risk.

So he looks at up the old man. "Yes."

. . . . . .

Seven hours later he's stepping out of a taxi in front of a high-rise full of condos in the heart of Arlington; luckily the building doesn't have a footman, which is a good thing because if he had to ring her unit up and ask for permission to enter, he's not sure what she'd say. But then this whole crazy trip has been a risk.

Quickly he enters and finds the elevator, and he's almost to her floor when it occurs to him that it's a Friday night—she might not be home. But there's nothing for it now, so he makes his way to 5G, straightens his tie one last time, and knocks on the door.

But she is home, because he hears footsteps on the other side of the door, and then the scrape of metal as the cover to the peephole is pushed to one side. And then there's a long pause, and he's started to wonder if he has the wrong apartment and is about to pull the address out of his pocket again when the door finally swings open. And there she is, looking like absolute perfection to his hungry eyes and just like he remembers her . . . except. Except that she looks tired. Except that she's in a pant suit, of all things. Except that she doesn't look happy to see him.

"Hi," she says shortly, leaning against the doorjamb. And the cool reception squeezes his heart like a vice, and he wonders why he was such an idiot to fly all the way to the East Coast to find her. But he made himself a promise to see this through. After all, what's the worst that can happen? He's already lost her; he can't lose her more.

"Hi," he responds. "Can we talk?"

She gestures to indicate he can go ahead. The hallway of her apartment building is not the most conducive place to a serious conversation, but he'll take what he can get.

"So," he says, and then stops to clear his throat. _Stop stalling_. He forces himself to start talking, and once he starts he finds he can't stop; desperately he fills the silence with any words he can find. "So three months ago you told me you had a job offer and I told you to take it, because it was a good job and I didn't want to hold you back and I had no good reason to keep you there with me, and you seemed bored hanging around my lab all day."

"Yeah, I get it," she cuts in. "You didn't need me around anymore."

"But I did," he responds, and her eyebrows rise very slightly. "And I do. I just didn't know it then. But . . ." And he takes a huge breath. "I do need you around. I want you around, all the time, because I love you." She looks surprised and skeptical and he plunges on desperately, knowing this might be his only chance to convince her. "I didn't know it then. I didn't know it until today. But I do, and I think I always did, since . . . for years. And you're wonderful, and I've missed you every day since you've been gone. I've been trying for three months not to think of you because it hurts, and I'm sick of pretending that I'm happy living without you."

And it's official, she's definitely not pleased. "And you tell me this now?" she demands, her arms folding tighter and her face pulling into a scowl. "When I live across the country from you, and I have a new place and new friends and I'm trying to make this new job work and we haven't seen each other for three months? You had years to say something, Drakken. And I pretty much gave you the perfect opportunity when I asked if I thought I should take this job, and you acted like you didn't even care what I did."

"I was an idiot," he says. "I can't give you any better reason than that. I didn't know myself, and I didn't know what I wanted. But I did know I didn't want you to go, and I don't know if it makes any difference now but I told you to leave because I thought this was a good opportunity for you and I wanted what was best for you. I wanted you to be happy and I didn't think living with me was what would get you there."

"And now that you've had some kind of epiphany, I'm supposed to drop everything and come running back to you?"

"No, not at all. I've been thinking about my options. I could move out here. I don't know where I'd find a place big enough to hold my lab, but I could rent office space somewhere. Or I could fly out here on the weekends, or if I ever have gaps between projects. Or we could just . . . talk on the phone." He paused. "If you were . . . interested." And he realizes that he just offered to move across the country for her when he doesn't even know how she feels, and, suddenly embarrassed, he looks down at his feet.

There's a long silence, and when he finally gets uncomfortable enough that he has to look up, he sees that her expression has softened. "Can I tell you a secret?" she says softly.

He nods, and she leans in conspiratorially. "I hate DC."

"What?" She always sounds so happy in her e-mails.

She nods. "I hate it. And I hate this job. I hate wearing suits. So I've been thinking about getting into freelance security work—guarding businessmen when they travel to dangerous places, things like that."

"Really?" he says. "So you're thinking . . ."

And she hesitates, and she unfolds her arms but then just shoves one of her hands into her pocket. "I've been thinking that if I did that I could live anywhere."

He catches his breath. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Well," she says hesitantly, "I've been thinking lately how much I miss that great French restaurant down the street from the lair."

A huge grin finds its way to his face, but before he can speak she informs him, "But you have to say it, right now, that you want me to come back with you."

There's nothing he could say that would be truer. "Shego," he says softly, and he steps forward and takes her hand in his, "please come home."

And the last bit of that icy exterior melts away, and now she's gazing at him—gazing isn't a word he ever thought he'd use for her—and her hand tightens around his. "I never wanted to leave," she says. "But I was surprised and mad that you didn't tell me to stay. But I've missed you."

And still he hesitates. "As a friend?" he asks. "Or as . . ."

Her lips twist into a smirk, but only for a few seconds because then they're on his.

"Okay," she whispers when they finally break apart. "Let's go home."

. . . . . .


	21. XXI: Muddle

With regards to E.M. Forster. If you've read Room with a View, you might recognize where the title of this chapter comes from.

. . . . . .

Six months ago she was an idiot.

Six months ago she sat on the couch, arms folded, and watched him come in the front door. "All right," she said as he hung up his coat, "you've made your point."

He blinked. "What point?"

"This—" she gestured at him in his collared shirt and tie— "and dating her. You made your point, okay? It bothers me. You win."

His brow remained furrowed. "I wasn't trying to—"

"Oh, you just happened to start dating someone else right after I turned you down? Look, I'm saying it worked. I'm jealous. So can we just pretend she never happened and move on with our lives?"

And then his expression cleared. "I see. When I want to date you, you shoot me down, but as soon as I'm not available, you change your mind. You're a little kid who only wants a toy when someone else is playing with it."

And then it was her turn to blink in surprise. He'd never talked to her like that before; having a girlfriend was giving him confidence.

He was continuing. "I'm not dating Diana to make you jealous. I like her, a lot. And yes, I was really hurt when you said that you'd been overly stressed so nothing that happened or almost happened during or after the invasion matters, because it did matter, to me. But like you insisted, I moved on, and I met someone else. And I'm dating her because I really, really like her, and for no other reason." And his lips pursed; he was annoyed. "This may shock you, but not everything in my life revolves around you."

She stared, and then turned and stalked up to her room, and the next morning she moved out.

. . . . . .

It's been six months, and Shego still looks back on that conversation and cringes. In her defense, she'd genuinely thought that he was trying to make her jealous, but that isn't much of a defense at all. She'd been arrogant, incredibly arrogant. She'd assumed that he'd never get over her; she'd assumed, as he'd accused, that his life revolved around her. Now—now when it's too late—she sees only too well how ridiculous she'd been. And sometimes it amuses her, in a humorless way, to think that her telling him no taught him confidence, while him telling her no taught her humility. Perhaps they couldn't be whole, healthy people when they were together, and it was only by breaking each other's hearts that they were able to both grow up.

He's still with Diana, as far as she's aware; she hasn't spoken to him since that night but sometimes when her defenses are low she Googles him, and whenever he's photographed at an event, that smiling blonde biologist is always on his arm. She'd like to hate Diana, but she can't. The woman's beautiful, but in an accessible way, and genuinely kind; she's smart and successful, but she uses that to help ill children. You just can't hate a woman like that. And Shego can't hate Drakken, either; once she'd calmed down she realized that he was only doing exactly what she'd told him to do: move on. So the only person she has to blame is herself.

And she does. She was an idiot for the way she spoke to him about Diana that night, but what she really regrets is that she turned him down in the first place. If she hadn't been so foolish, if she'd understood what she had in him, Diana never would have even been an issue. She would have the right to be with him now. And there's nothing worse than a muddle that's your own fault—one you could have avoided. But rather than wallow in regret, she tries not to think about it.

Until the day she sees him in the hallway of the Atlanta Marriott, sipping a coffee and checking his watch, and suddenly there's nothing in her head but him. She'd known, when her employer told her they were coming to this conference, that Drakken might be there, and even as she'd tried to talk her way out of coming—who needs a bodyguard at a professional conference?—she found herself wondering what she'd wear, just in case he was there. And here he is, looking rather handsome in a charcoal gray suit, and she's glad she went for the dress today; she knows she looks good in it.

When his eyes lift from his watch and see her standing there, she can see the emotions and thoughts flitting across his face: surprise, then pleasure, then the moment he remembers their parting, then displeasure, and then careful neutrality. Six months and she can still read him like a book.

"Hi," she says softly.

"Hi," he replies cautiously, and just the sound of his voice triggers a flood of memories and regret in her.

"You lost the lab coat," she observes, because something needs to be said.

He glances down at his pale green tie. "Yes, well," he shrugs. "I decided if I wanted to be taken seriously as a scientist, I'd better stop dressing like a supervillain." He pauses a moment, then gestures to her black dress. "No more jumpsuit?"

"My boss wanted me to blend in a little more." How strange it feels to use the word "boss" in front of him but not to refer to him. She wonders if this is how divorced couples feel when telling each other about their new spouses.

"Oh yes, I heard about your new position. Hemtech, right? How's Hardison as an employer?"

And she hates that they're standing here making small talk about their jobs when they haven't seen each other in six months. They used to be able to talk so easily. He wouldn't believe it, given how little she would tell him of her background, but he knows her better than anyone in the world. Certainly better than anyone in her new life in Miami.

"He's fine," she says tersely, and then wants to kick herself because she can see him pulling away from her as though a little hurt by her snappish reply. "How are things with you?"

"Great," he says. "My work is going well. Lots of contracts and commissions."

"Great," she says, then pauses, casting her mind about for another subject. The only one that comes is one that fills her with both hope and dread. "How's Diana?"

He's keeping his face carefully impassive. "She's back in Berlin. We . . . we're not seeing each other anymore."

"Oh," she says. "Oh." Then, "How are you . . ."

"It's fine," he interrupts.

"Good," she says, and then the tension and the small talk and the voice in her head screaming that _he's free_ are too much for her. "This is too weird," she says, more forcefully than she meant to. "We're chitchatting like we're normal people. You're in a suit, of all things."

He's keeping his face carefully impassive. "I'm sorry my suit bothers you."

"It doesn't," she says quickly. "It's just—do you want to go get a drink? Catch up, reminisce about old times?"

But if she's expecting his expression to soften, she's sadly disappointed. "No time. I'm delivering an address in a few minutes, and I'm leaving straight from there for the airport." From his polite, bland tone of voice, he could have been talking to a cabbie or his dogsitter; you'd never guess he was talking to the person he'd worked with, lived with, shared all his plans and dreams with, for years. She feels the distance between them as though it's a tangible thing—a wall that keeps him at arm's distance.

But she gives it one last try. "Maybe if I'm ever back in DC?"

He gives her a tight smile. "Maybe," he says, but he sounds about as unwilling to see her again as a cat is to be bathed. "Well, nice to see you again." And this time it's him walking out of her life, and she feels like she's a movie cliche but she stands there and watches him go with her mouth hung open in shock.

She spends the next hour at the hotel bar. She has a rule about drinking alone but today she's happy to break it. She's imagined countless times how things would go if she saw him again, but she never imagined it being such an absolute failure.

She goes over and over in her mind what happened and how it could have gone better, how she could have fixed it, but she's not sure what would have helped, what he wants from her. And she's almost resigned to the fact that he's about to leave town and she won't see him again for months and months and it'll all be her fault. Everything that has happened has been her fault.

And in that moment, she knows what to do.

It's ten past four which means his lecture is over, and she runs to the lobby, hoping against hope she hasn't missed him. And yes, there he is, just climbing into a cab while the cabbie puts his luggage in the trunk and two young men she recognizes as his assistants discuss something on the sidewalk. And before she can talk herself out of it, she rushes forward and pushes her way through the doors.

"Drakken, wait!" she cries, and when he turns, she takes a deep breath and tells him, "I'm sorry."

Four faces wearing identical expressions of surprise look back at her from around the cab.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, and what she's saying is so unlike her that she's startled to hear the words coming out of her own mouth. "I was a jerk when I left. I was unkind and self-absorbed and everything else you said about me was true. And I'm even more sorry about before. I was scared of committing so I pushed you away and I want you to know that I've regretted it ever since. I've regretted all of it. Not working with you, of course—that was . . . the best years . . . but everything I did after that. If I could take it all back I would in a second because I miss you. I've been missing you for six months. And . . . I'm sorry."

And as her tirade ends, she's aware once again of the sounds of the city, the honking of cars and the chatter of the pedestrians, made all the more noticeable by the fact that he isn't saying anything. He stands there, half in the cab, for what feels like days. And then a look flits across his face—confusion and hurt—and slowly he speaks. "I've got a plane to catch," he says, and climbs in and shuts the door. The two assistants follow suit, stealing quick glances at her as they do, and the cabbie shuts the trunk and walks around to the driver's seat. Over the top of the cab he shoots her a sympathetic look, and then he's inside and for the second time that day, Drakken is leaving her behind.

. . . . . .

In a strange way, things are easier when she gets back to Miami. At least she knows now. At least she doesn't have to torture herself with wondering if she could fix things if she went and talked to him. Now she knows it wouldn't make a difference.

Work goes on the same as always; she supervises the security team and accompanies Hardison to events and public appearances and factory inspections, and she spends a lot of time sitting in Hardison's spacious office suite, reading magazines. It's not the same as her old job, though; Hardison never wants her opinions. Hardison doesn't smile goofily at her. Hardison doesn't consider her a friend.

A week and a half pass this way, and she's just about reached the point where she can think of that conference without too much internal discomfort when one afternoon, the secretary pages her. "Miss Go, there's a visitor for you in the lobby." Her mind immediately jumps to him, of course, but she tells herself not to do that; hoping is just going to make it that much worse when it's someone else.

But it turns out she could have gone ahead and hoped; it's him. He's in a dark blue dress shirt and black slacks, and it reminds her a bit of his old lab coat and that makes her smile. He's pacing up and down the lobby, but when he looks up and notices her, he stops dead, staring while his mouth struggles to form words.

"I'm sorry too," he finally manages, his words all coming out in a rush. "For being so rude at the conference. And for just leaving like that. I was so angry with you, for everything with Diana and everything before Diana." He hesitates. "And I'm sorry that . . . that I didn't come after you when you left after our fight, or even just try to contact you. I should have. Because despite everything else, you were my friend. But the thing was—I know this is terrible, but I was kind of glad you were hurt. I wanted you to feel . . ." He hesitates. "Like I'd felt." His lips twist in a self-deprecating little smile. "You did break my heart, you know."

She hasn't moved. "I know," she says softly.

"So when you came after me," he says, "I said I didn't care, and I left, and I spent all week trying to pretend that never happened and it didn't matter. But I couldn't make myself believe it. Or forget."

And now a tiny smile is quirking one corner of her mouth. "So what now?"

"Well," he says, fidgeting, "I believe you mentioned drinks?"

It sounds like he rehearsed that line, and the thought makes the smile bloom fully across her face. "And maybe dinner. I know a great place around the corner." And she has high hopes for that dinner. Maybe they couldn't be whole, healthy people when they were together before, but now that they've grown up separately, they can try again. Maybe they're both finally ready.

Drakken glances at the secretary, who's watching them with eyes starry and mouth agape; Shego wonders if they should have charged admission, because the woman seems to be enjoying the show. But she gets back in Shego's good books by saying briskly, "I'll tell Mr. Hardison you had a personal emergency, shall I?"

Shego smiles but doesn't answer as she and Drakken walk out the door. She's got other things on her mind: mistakes past to atone for, time lost to make up for. And the way his hand feels in hers.

. . . . . .


	22. XXII: First

. . . . . .

It's been a week of firsts for him. First time being a hero, first time saving the world, first time he's been awarded a medal, first time he's stood in front of a crowd that's cheering, genuinely cheering, for _him_, a crowd that's happy and proud and grateful. And the first time Shego's looked at him like that, also happy and proud but also something else he can't quite name.

But it's not the first time his heart has pounded in his chest when she's close to him, so although he's embarrassed when his vines reach out to draw her near, he's secretly glad they've done what he's never had the courage to do. And from the look on her face, she's embarrassed and glad too, and they stand pressed together while the crowd cheers and for a brief moment everything's perfect. And then he hears his cousin's voice.

"Seriously?" the mulleted mechanic is bellowing from the audience. "You and her? No way. _No way _that hotness is going for you. What is this, some kind of publicity stunt?"

And Drakken would absolutely love to hit Ed in the face right now, and from Shego's expression she feels the same, and then a familiar sparkle of mischief lights up her eyes. "How about we show your idiot cousin exactly what this hotness is going for?"

He has no idea what that means but he finds out very quickly when she places her hands lightly on his chest for balance and then goes up on her toes and kisses him, right there in front of the UN and the TV cameras and all those other villains. It's wonderful and mad and he's too dumbfounded to react, and for once in his life he doesn't mind having no idea what to do.

All too soon she pulls away, just far enough for them to speak, although all he can do is stutter. "Yeah, we—we could do . . . that." On some level he's dimly aware that the cheering from the audience has grown louder.

She smiles a broad, genuine smile. "Did you mind?"

All he can manage is shaking his head, but this time when she kisses him he's ready for it. And this is all getting broadcast on C-SPAN, and he's fairly certain that this moment, and not the actual awarding of the medal, is what's going to make the 10 o'clock news, and none of their villain friends are ever going to let them live this down, and he hopes he's not alienating the scientists and politicians in attendance because he's rather going to need them to hire him for future projects if he wants to make a living as a good guy.

But these thoughts are a quiet clamor in the back of his mind because mostly he's thinking about her, about how absolutely right this is, and that's the only thing that really matters right now. This has been a week of firsts, but he's no longer worried about the future.

. . . . . .


	23. XXIII: Want

AN: I've noticed that the average length of these stories has increased dramatically since I started this collection five long years ago. So in honor of ye olde days, I decided to do a really short one. I have no reason why it turned out this gloomy, though.

. . . . . .

She didn't want things to go this way, not at all. She didn't want Drakken to happen upon her moments after she got the call, because she didn't want him to see her drop her icy exterior and cry. She didn't want to respond to his knowing expression that said he understood her mourning even though she hadn't been close to her brother for years. She didn't want the pity that caused him to put his arms around her (although she also didn't want to move away).

And most of all she didn't want their first kiss to be tainted by the taste of tears. But there it was, hesitant and tear-stained and infinitely tender, and as he haltingly and shyly told her he'd be there for her, whatever she needed, she knew that while she hadn't wanted things to happen this way, now that they had she was glad to have him there.

. . . . . .


	24. XXIV: A Bad Day

AN: Sorry for the long delay. This chapter is dedicated to A113 Cowgirl, who requested a story not exactly like but similar to this. Sorry it's not quite what you wanted, but thanks for prompting me to write again. :)

. . . . . .

The door closes with a resounding thud, and she thinks she's never been so glad to have a barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She stands in the entryway a while, indecisive—unsure if she'd rather distract her brain with TV or throw herself on her bed or just scream until things feel better. In the end she can't choose and she ends up sitting carefully on the couch, staring with tired eyes at the blank TV set.

That's where he finds her a few minutes later, and after a long nervous hesitation he sits down next to her. "You're . . . quiet," he observes.

She takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly.

"Rough day?" he guesses.

She doesn't answer for a while. "Yeah."

He pauses a moment, than asks delicately, "Do you want to talk about it?" It's brave of him, because usually her bad days are explosively, dangerously bad. But then he's braver with her lately.

"No," she says quietly, and he nods but doesn't leave. The quiet that follows is soothing—she's learning how much she enjoys silence sometimes—and she's surprised that she rather enjoys the feeling of having him so near. And it's the comfort of his presence that pulls words from her throat. "That training program for GJ," she says without preamble. "There's this guy and he is the absolute worst. Whatever I teach, he tells the students the next day to ignore it and do something else, and whatever I suggest to the director, he goes to her later and turns her against it. He's not even involved in the training program, he's just a nosy jerk in admin. And I've talked to the director about it and she doesn't care; she says she'll talk to him about undermining me with the students but she never does and he just keeps telling me what to do and how I'm always wrong, and I would just quit but I'm contracted for another two months. Today I swear I almost killed him."

He's watching her silently, an uncertain look on his face. Before the invasion, he would have immediately butted in and told her to start a record of everything this guy did and use it to make a reasoned case to the director, and she would have been furious with him for it. That's just how he was: good at problem solving, bad at knowing what people need. But in recent weeks he's been different around her, more careful and hesitant but also more comfortable with sitting so close that their arms brush, and she thinks she knows why. What she doesn't know is how she feels about this.

But as the silence drags on, she almost thinks she'd rather have him give his useless advice than just sit there awkwardly. She can't bring herself to snap at him, though, so she speaks again. "I'm just tired lately. I'm tired of having to make nice with people instead of just blasting people who deserve it. I'm tired of always feeling like if I put a toe out of line, there are a thousand people who'd love to lock me up."

He's still silent, and with a sigh she slouches forward, elbows on knees and hangs her head. And then he finally speaks. "Are you saying you don't want to do this anymore?"

She thinks about this a while, her head still hung. "No," she says finally. "I am glad of the way things are. It's just taking some getting used to and some days are tough."

And she's just about to stand and go to the gym to take out her feelings on a punching bag when unexpectedly he puts a hand on her back. It's the first time he's touched her—clearly and on purpose—since the invasion. Come to think of it, it's the first time anyone's touched her since then. She's too surprised to respond.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I know I encouraged you to take that training position. If I'd known how it would be . . ."

She shakes her head mutely, busy wondering if that fact that she's incredibly aware of his touch has to do with the fact that she hasn't been touched in a while or with the fact that it's him.

"Is there anything I can do?" he says, and he's starting to rub the shoulder blade that his hand is on with his thumb and goodness gracious does that feel nice.

"No," she says, looking back up at him and wondering why she never noticed what strong hands he has. "I can deal with this. I'm a big grown-up girl."

But there's bitterness in her voice, and she knows he hears it because he flinches a little. And then he does the bravest thing she's ever seen him do: he leans forward, the one hand sliding across her back, and puts both of his arms around her in a hug.

"You don't have to deal with everything alone," he says.

The last time someone hugged her she broke his wrist, but although part of her is humming with that instinct that says that hugging is a sentimental gesture she will have no part of, the rest of her—the part that's still tired and sad from today and the part that's suddenly very aware of the warmth of his skin—likes this idea very much, and after a long uncertain pause where she's unyielding as stone in his embrace, she finds herself suddenly wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her face into his shoulder.

He's a solid anchor amid her turbulent feelings, and she clings to tight him for a few moments until her unhappiness resides, and then she's just sitting there in a quiet contentment with her arms around him. He seems to have no more intention than she does of moving—he puts his feet up on the ottoman and gets comfortably leaned back on the couch—so she pulls her legs up on the couch and turns to get a better angle to repose on his shoulder, and suddenly the events of the day are a distant memory.

"For what it's worth," he says a moment later, "I'm glad you don't want to leave."

And it turns out that this, the warmth of his body and the comfort of his shoulder, is all she needs after the terrible day that today was. And maybe it's all she needs, period. So she lifts her head from his shoulder to press a kiss along his jawline. She can feel him catch his breath, and she loves having that effect on him and she's growing rather fond of the effect he's having on her. So she responds, "No, I think you're stuck with me for a while."

It turns out to be a good day after all.

. . . . . .


	25. XXV: Ancient History

. . . . . .

"It's a simple question," said Smithson.

"It's a ridiculous question," said Drakken.

"Come on, it can't be that hard."

"It really can," Drakken replied. "And it's a ridiculous scenario. It would never happen."

"The point of the question really isn't whether it would happen," said Smithson reasonably. "The point is who you would pick."

"Who you'd pick for what?" asked Shego, ambling into the lab, and the two scientists turned to look at her. "Also, the one with the mustache asked me to bring this to you." She tossed a folder down on the table, and Smithson leaned over it to read the latest test report for her new power converter.

"Never thought I'd live to see the day that the great and villainous Shego became an errand girl," the young scientist teased, and Drakken smiled wanly, wishing that Smithson wouldn't remind Shego that she had a fairly menial assignment here. Shego was his closest friend, maybe his only friend, and he was thrilled that she decided to follow him to this defense R&D facility and he really didn't want some joker to make her think about leaving again.

But Shego just smirked. "With what the guys upstairs are paying me, I can live with running a few errands. Anyway, you never answered my question. Who would you pick for what?"

"Ah," said Smithson, adjusting her glasses, "yes, I was asking Drakken a really important question. Shego, have you seen Princess Diaries 2?"

Shego raised an eyebrow, and Drakken was glad that for once he wasn't on the receiving end of that look. "Do I look like I've seen anything with the word 'princess' in the title?"

"See, in the movie," said Smithson, undeterred, "for Anne Hathaway to keep her claim on the throne of Genovia, she has to get married pretty quickly, so they, like, compile a list of eligible guys and she picks one and they have an arranged . . . engagement. But in the end it's okay because she ends up with Chris Pine."

"That sounds like an awful movie," said Shego flatly, but Smithson just laughed. She always just laughed at Shego.

"The point is, my question to Drakken was, if you were in that position, and you had to marry someone fast but pretty much anyone would say yes to you because hello, they'd be royalty, who would you choose? Except it's boring if you say, like, a celebrity, so pick someone you actually know."

Shego's face grew thoughtful, but she didn't have a chance to answer because Smithson was standing up. "And I want you to think about it because right now I have to go talk to McGrath about this most recent test but when I get back I want an answer from both of you." And she scooped up the folder and hurried out of the room.

There was a creak as Shego flopped into the chair next to Drakken, and her former employer glanced at her face. Once upon a time Shego would have been thoroughly annoyed by a ridiculous question based off an Anne Hathaway movie, but now she just looked amused. "That _is_ a really important question," she said, mock-serious. "All right, Doc, let's hear your answer."

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. I'd have to think about it more."

And that was not the answer she expected, he saw from the look on her face. "Really?"

"That surprises you? That I would need a few moments to decide who to spend the rest of my life with?"

"Well, yeah," she shrugged. "You only know, like, four single women who aren't insane or in jail. I figured you'd choose me right off."

And Drakken paused, and a wry smile crossed his face. "Sorry."

"I'm hurt," said Shego, and her face said she was joking, but after a moment she added, "No, but seriously, why wouldn't you choose me?"

"Would you choose me?" he countered.

"Maybe," she said defensively. "But I know a lot more men than you do women. I have a bigger pool to choose from."

"Charming," he said drily, and it was a testament to how their friendship had grown since they gave up villainy that he was comfortable talking to her like that.

"So you wouldn't want to be married to me?" she pressed.

And he paused again, trying to put his thoughts into words, and found himself chuckling at the irony of this conversation instead. "It's not that I don't like you, it's . . ."

And now he saw, to his surprise, that Shego was beginning to be genuinely bothered about this conversation. "What about it is funny?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "It's just . . . it's complicated."

"Explain it to me, I'm smart."

And now he was getting uncomfortable. "It's nothing about you, really—"

"Tell me," she commanded, and when he opened his mouth to refuse again, she added, "Remember how last month I picked you up from the airport and you said you totally owed me and I could ask you for anything? This is it. I'm calling in that favor."

He cringed. "Oh, that's, umm . . ."

"Answer," she demanded.

The conversation had gotten uncomfortable fast, and Drakken wished Smithson would return to interrupt it. He and Shego had grown very close in the past few months; he could genuinely say now that they were friends, and they talked much easier than they had when their relationship was purely professional and purely villainous. But the conversation she wanted to have might be too much even for that new bond.

"Answer or I'll tell Smithson you chose her."

"Fine," he said quickly. "Look, Shego, it's not that I don't like you, it's . . ." He could tell that he was flushing purple and he trailed off and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"If you don't tell me I'm just going to assume the reason is something really terrible, like you're already married to a parakeet or something."

"Fine," he said again, forcing the words out as his face burned in shame. "It's that—I used to . . . really like you." She froze, clearly shocked, and he continued, "You know, in a . . . romantic sort of way. A lot. And for kind of a long time. And somehow, that makes the idea of an arranged marriage with you much worse. Just for me, and I know I'm being ridiculous about it, but . . . if I chose, say, Smithson—she's nice and decent-looking and we'd probably be fine together. But with you I'd feel like we have this romantic history together, even though it's entirely on my side, and it would be uncomfortable. Being with you that way would be hard because every day would just be this reminder that for a year and a half I pined for you but I could never make you . . . return that feeling. It would be hard to . . . it'd be easier to marry someone I have no history with." He paused, tried to lighten the mood. "Although, really, after I thought about it, I might you choose you anyway."

Shego had done nothing during this whole explanation; she just seemed to stare harder every few words.

"Well," Drakken finally said after a few long moments, "now you know. I think I'd marry Tonya from reception. She appreciates my taste in sci-fi movies."

And Shego looked at him a few moments longer in silence, then shrugged, the movement looking forced. "I guess nerds deserve happiness too," she said, but it was clear from her expression that her mind was a million miles away.

. . . . . .

The next day was the beginning of a two-week vacation for Drakken; he and his mother were taking a tour of Revolutionary War sites in New England, something she'd always wanted to do. He didn't care much about history but it was nice to be away from work and nice to be with his mom.

He got home on a bright afternoon and found a note on his door: _Call me when you're home_. Not signed, but he'd know Shego's handwriting anywhere. He put his luggage in his front entry way and pulled out his phone.

Shego lived in the same building so she was down to his floor within minutes. She looked different than she did at work, somehow; something about her hair or her eyes was . . . softer, and with a sudden pang, he couldn't help but remember how he'd felt about her for all that time.

"Hey," she said, and he could immediately tell something was going on. She seemed off somehow; a little hesitant and even shy, which was not like her at all. "Can we walk?"

With a shrug he agreed and soon they were meandering through the streets of their neighborhood, with him leading the way because she was very distracted by something.

Finally she spoke. "I didn't know."

"Know?"

"That you had feelings for me. I had no idea."

Oh, yes. He'd been hoping she wouldn't bring that up again, but that was just not how his luck ran. "I made sure you didn't know," he said. "You clearly didn't feel the same way, and there wasn't any sense in ruining a perfectly good work relationship."

She nodded. "And then you just . . . stopped?"

"Well," he said reasonably, and repeated the phrase he'd said to himself so many times, "you can't do that forever. You'll go crazy." It had been more difficult than he let on to get over his unrequited crush, but she didn't need to know that.

She lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence after that. They'd reached the park and she took the lead now, heading across the grass with a glance at him to make sure he was following. Under the giant oak trees she paused, looked up at him, bit her lip, and then spoke.

"I want to try."

"Try?" he repeated, baffled.

"Us," she clarified, then smirked. "If you can stand to disappoint Tonya in reception."

"Are we still talking about princesses?"

She looked frustrated and took a step toward him. "No, we're talking about us. Me and you. I never thought of you that way but since you mentioned it I haven't been able to think of anything else. So let's . . . try. Me and you."

And Drakken finally understood, and he stared at Shego while his head and his heart stayed curiously blank, both completely unsure of how to react. He'd spent a long time trying to make himself stop caring about her, and she just wanted to blast open the floodgates he'd so carefully kept closed.

"Shego, you're my closest friend," he said honestly. "I don't want to ruin that."

"We can be adults about it. It ending wouldn't have to ruin our friendship."

"Wouldn't it?" he demanded. "You know me—better than anyone—so you know better than anyone that I don't do things by halves. If I let myself care about you again and you broke my heart . . ."

She took a step closer and put a hand on his arm. "I can't promise I won't break your heart, because I might. But I'm going to try not to, and just . . . think of how great this could be." She began to trail her fingers up and down his arm, and he had to admit it made his breath come faster. "You're my closest friend too," she admitted. "You're the reason that I took this job. So why wouldn't we want to take this friendship and just amp it up by adding making out to it?"

And he was a middle-aged man and a respected scientist and it was downright embarrassing that she could still turn him into a stammering teenager. "It's—I—it's been a long time since then."

"I see," she said flatly, dropping her hand back down to her side, and instinctively he almost stepped toward her, trying to maintain the contact as long as possible. "So you don't have feelings for me anymore?"

"It was a long time ago," he said again. "And I worked really hard on making myself not feel that way anymore. It hurt working with you every day and knowing you only thought of me as your irritating boss. So I forced myself not to care, and that's not a switch I can just flip . . ."

She nodded seriously—a serious, thoughtful Shego was not a sight he was accustomed to—and stepped away. Part of him was relieved and part of him—a tiny part he'd been ignoring for three years—wished that she would press the subject, that she would force him to confront those old feelings, that she would touch him again.

But if he thought the conversation was over, he was forgetting that Shego was extremely tenacious when she had found something she wanted. "All right, Doc," she said, "what are you doing tonight?"

"Tonight?" he repeated blankly.

"Yeah, you know, tonight. Once this afternoon is over."

"Uh . . . I was just going to unpack from my trip."

She nodded and fixed him with a piercing gaze. "Well, Mr. Lipsky, would you like to go out to dinner with me? On a date?"

"Shego, what are you—"

"You're over me, I get that," she said. "So I thought we'd start from scratch. Like people do when they date."

He blinked in surprise a few times. "Why?"

"Because I think this could work. Because I want to be with you."

She did have a knack for turning him into a stammering teenager.

_This could end badly,_ said one voice in his head.

_A beautiful woman wants to take you on a date,_ retorted the other. _Why are you even hesitating?_

"I guess I do need to eat dinner," he found himself saying.

A genuine smile crossed her face, and he caught his breath because for three years he hadn't let himself think about how beautiful she really was. "All right," she said, "I'll pick you up at 6." And before he could move or respond she'd leaned forward and placed a feather-light kiss on his cheek.

And then she was striding away across the grass, leaving him standing under the oaks with one hand reaching up to gently touch his cheek and with his voice murmuring after her. "See you then."

. . . . . .


	26. XXVI: Compromise

AN: This chapter is dedicated to CVSDELL, who gave me half of the idea for this story.

. . . . . .

It's six months after the invasion that he works up the courage to ask her on a date. And then he realizes he was right to be nervous, because she gives him just about the worst response he could have imagined.

"Seriously?" she asks skeptically, glancing up from her magazine long enough to look him up and down with a critical eye. "Me and you on a date? That's a joke, right?"

"What is so ridiculous about it?" he asks defensively, because part of his personal brand of awkwardness is that often he presses forward when his instincts say to retreat. "We have similar work interests, we get along. And I'm a nice guy."

"Yeah, you're nice," she shrugs. "But Drakken, you do realize that you're like fifteen years older than me, right? Gross." She grimaces. "I don't really go for older men."

"That's never bothered you before."

"Yeah, because the age gap doesn't matter when I'm your sidekick. But dating? I mean, to begin with, you and me would never in a million years be into the same things."

And he should probably shut up before he really embarrasses himself, but instead he finds himself saying, "I could learn to appreciate some of your interests. I'm adaptable."

She laughs out loud at that, and when he repeats his claim, she fixes him with a considering eye. "You really think you could be into the same stuff as me?" she asks. He nods and she smirks. "Let's see about that. The Southern Lights are playing at the Station tomorrow. Come with me and see if you really think you could handle hanging out with me." He's desperate enough to salvage what's left of his pride that he agrees.

And that's how, twenty-four hours later, he finds himself squeezed into a crowd of college students and twenty-somethings, mostly quite drunk, all yelling. He's trying to keep an open mind about all this but his feet are starting to hurt and there's a kid behind him whose moronic dance moves keep throwing elbows into Drakken's back, and all he can think is the kid's lucky he's not armed.

"Oh good," he shouts over the crowd as he notices a bearded man in a black t-shirt walking on stage with a guitar. "That's the band?"

Shego shakes her head, swaying slightly to the music playing over the PA system. "No, that's just a roadie. I think he's tuning that guitar."

"Okay, says Drakken, surreptitiously checking his watch. 8:30. "Then the band will be on?"

"No, then there'll be an opening band."

He grows still as a feeling of dread steals over him. "We just saw the opening band."

"There's two opening bands."

"What in the world is happening here?" Drakken demands. "I paid to see the Southern Lights, whoever they are, and I want them out on this stage so I can watch them and go home. I did not pay to see two other bands spend hours setting up their equipment and then perform terrible music no one here knows."

Shego is a little tipsy and she just grins at him. "Not liking it after all?"

He tries not to lose his cool, but it still manages to get itself lost. "Shego, this is ridiculous," he bursts out. "We have been standing here for two hours and now you are telling me that we have another hour before the band goes on. My feet hurt, I am bored, and there are one million people in here and they all seem to be intent on knocking me over. There is a giant speaker ten feet from my head that is blasting terrible alternative rock and giving me a pounding headache. And what is that smell?" he demands. "Is that what I think it is?"

She sniffs delicately. "That depends on which smell you mean," she says thoughtfully. "But for the most part, a good rule of thumb at a place like this would be, any smell is probably exactly what you think it is."

Drakken hangs his head and groans.

Another twenty-four hours later and he's sitting on the couch, eating a late dinner, when Shego walks in with shopping bags over her arm. He hasn't talked to her since last night; she fell asleep immediately after they got home from the concert, and when he woke up this morning, she was already gone for a spa day. He's been enjoying the respite; he's not looking forward to the conversation where she says I was so right, you hated last night, obviously fifteen years is too big a gap for two people to date.

But the conversation they actually have turns out to be somewhat different.

"Recovered from last night?" she grins, and he braces himself for the inevitable mocking and rejection.

"Well, I'm feeling fine, but I don't think I'll be going to the Station again any time soon."

She sets her shopping bags down, hesitates a moment, and then sits on the other end of the couch. He's pretending to be focused on his sandwich but out of the corner of his eye he can see that she's fiddling with the cuffs of her sleeves, her eyes fixed on her lap, which baffles him; she's never unsure of herself.

But it turns out that maybe she's uncertain because she's about to do something that he would have never expected her to do: be nice to him. "I know you hated last night," she says. "But you came with me, even though it's not really your thing, because you know I like it, and that was really cool of you."

He's staring now, his sandwich forgotten, because this is not what he expected at all.

"And I still think you're super old, and I'm still maybe slightly weirded out by that, but I've been thinking about this all day, and you know, we've always been pretty good friends. Except when we hated each other. So maybe . . ."

"What are you saying, Shego?" he demands when she doesn't continue, because he's been having his heart slowly broken over the last two days and he's done pretending this whole affair hasn't been really difficult for him.

She makes a face at him. "Don't make me spell it out, Doc, this is weird enough as it is." She pauses. "Look, what are you doing tonight? After you finish your sandwich?"

He gestures at the TV, where the DVD menu for What's Up, Doc? is showing. "Watching a movie. That's what us old people do at night."

"Can I watch it with you?"

"I suppose," he says slowly as she picks up the remote and hits play. He's still confused by that speech about being friends and he's not sure if this whole thing is just a way of letting him down easy.

But maybe it isn't, because as the movie starts playing, she kicks off her shoes and sprawls across the couch so that she's laying in his lap, so that there's no place for him to put his hand except on her shoulder, so that her own hand hangs down over the couch and she starts using it to trace patterns on his knee.

"This is nice," she says a few minutes later, as Barbra Streisand sings the opening credits theme.

"Oh?" he says, because this is all very distracting and that's all he's capable of saying just now.

"I mean, let's don't do it every single night, but it's nice."

"Oh," he repeats, then finds himself adding, "That band last night—they were good, once they actually started playing."

"Next time they're in town," she says, "we'll go late and skip the opening acts."

"There's going to be a next time?" he asks, astonished.

She turns so she can look up at him, and he sees that she's smiling at him in a way he's never seen before. "Yeah, Drakken," she says. "There's going to be a next time."

. . . . . .


End file.
